


-■)*>■ 






TIMOTHY TUBBY'S 
JOURNAL 

THE AMERICAN DIARY OF 
THE FAMOUS BRITISH NOVELIST 








Class 
Book. 



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Gopyiiglit}!?. 



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C.OfVRIGKT DEPOSm 



The American Diary of the 

Famous British Novelist 
TIMOTHY TUBBY, ESQR 

P.P.C, R.S.V.P. 



THE BOOKMAN Classics 




A series of volumes dealing with literary sub- 
jects, sometimes grave, sometimes gay; but de- 
signed to acquaint the reader with the current 
tendencies of writing in America. 

A PARODY OUTLINE OF HISTOEY 

Donald Ogden Stewart 

THE BUSINESS OF WRITING: 

A Practical Guide for Authors 

Robert Cortes Holliday and 
Alexander Van Rensselaer 

THE BOOKMAN ANTHOLOGY OP VEESE (1922) 

Edited by John Farrar 

TIMOTHY TUBBY^S JOUENAL 

Anonymous 



NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 




I WAS ATTENDING A SMALL TEA 



Timothy Tubby's 
Journal 



Drawings by HERB ROTH 




NEW ^^SW^ YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






,<,v^ 



Copyright, 1922, 
By George H. Dor an Company 







TIMOTHY TUBBY'S JOURNAL. I 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



NOV 16 1922 



C1AG90240 



TO 

JOHN MASEFIELD, HUGH WALPOLE, 

FRANK SWINNERTON and 

J. C. SQUIRE 

WITH ASSURANCES OF MY HIGH ESTEEM, 
AND A HOPE THAT SINCE I HAVE AIMED TO 
POKE FUN AT MY RELATIVES ON BOTH 
SIDES OF THE ATLANTIC, THIS BURLESQUE 
MAY DO A LITTLE TO CLEAR THE ANGLO- 
AMERICAN LITERARY ATMOSPHERE. 



FOREWORD 

I was attending a small tea not long after my 
arrival in America at the home of one of 
your Wall Street magnates. (The house was 
decorated in surprisingly good taste/) The 
tea was well served. I noticed, particularly, 
that the servants were English. (The livery 
was excellently chosen.) Indeed, one of your 
most charming American characteristics is, 
that in spite of a certain fundamental awk- 
wardness which is native and, I must say, 
compelling, you learn quickly. Yes! the tea 
made me feel as though I were in dear 
Theresa's father's drawing room on Downing 
Street talking to my old friend Doddy.^ 
When I was invited to this aflFair I had, of 
course, no intention of making a speech; 
but Mrs. W., our hostess, pressed me so 

*Poor Timothy, his aesthetic sense is lacking. It was a shock- 
ing house. Thr. Tb. 
*^The Rt Hon. Cecil Doddering. 

[ix] 



Foreword 

warmly to tell her guests a bit about literary 
London, that I could not refrain, so I chatted 
for an hour and a half on my first impressions 
of the New York skyline. What magnificent 
structures your skyscrapers are! How they 
lift the heart toward Heaven — like the most 
delicate of French pastries against a sunset 
sky. 

Speaking of skylines calls to my mind the 
momentous day when our ship steamed into 
New York harbor. What a harbor! An ex- 
cellent friend of mine in your metropolis, who 
handles my literary business for me, had ap- 
parently let slip some slight word of my ap- 
proach, so that several reporters met us at 
quarantine. My wife was charmed by their 
naivete.^ Having saved a snifter for the oc- 
casion, we all enjoyed a quiet drink. It was 
then during one of the intervals in Theresa's 
conversation with these bluff but nevertheless 
attractive gentlemen (your press has treated 
me so well that I most certainly could say 

■ What flatterers your American young men are ! Remember, 
my friends, that to flatter a woman over thirty is as dangerous 
as to kiss one under twenty. Thr. Tb. 

[x] 



Foreword 

nothing against them), that a young man 
named Broun who seemed to be a sort of ring 
leader,^ turned to me and said, "I once read 
a book of yours, Mr. Tubby." Think of 
thatl This was a welcome extraordinary to 
America. My heart was so warmed by his 
words and by my haste to give him another 
drink that I quite forgot to ask him which 
book he had read or, indeed, whether or no 
he cared for my somewhat unusual style. 

It was at Mrs. W.'s tea that Angela Porter 
(she has a lovely face and is artistic in some 
way — I forget whether she sings or dances ^ ) 
came to me. **Mr. Tubby," she said, "you 
will write a book on America, won't you?" 
Now until that moment, I confess that it had 
never occurred to me. I hesitated. She went 
on, "Your power of observation is so keen and 
your books are becoming so popular, a cri- 
tique of our manners from you would be of 
inestimable value to so young a nation." 

* We later learned that he was strangely influential in certain 
literary circles. 

'She dances. Her features are as ugly as a hedgehog; but 
her figure is excellent. Tubby 's memory plays him tricks. A 
man's memory is often lucky in its lapses. Thr. Tb. 

[xi] 



Foreword 

It was then that I promised to write this 
book, feeling a certain duty in the matter. If 
an apology is necessary, I make it now. 
Should I seem to criticize, I know that the 
public which has been so generous in its atten- 
dance and applause of my lectures will for- 
give. A strong lusty child should not mind an 
occasional beating. Then, why should a na- 
tion so hearty, so virile in its possibilities as 
America, take offense at kindly criticism from 
one who is, after all, one of the parent stock; 
for you must never forget that you are our 
child. So, while making no very definite 
apologies for my criticism, I do not want, 
for an instant, to alienate even one member 
of my dear American public. 

My wife's notebook, her knowledge of so- 
cial usage among English peers, and her 
great love for me and interest in my work, 
has made her assistance desirable. It was not 
my own wish that her biographical note on 
me should introduce this volume ; but the club 
women of America, who have been more than 
appreciative of me, have, figuratively, risen 

[xii] 



Foreword 

in a body to demand some explanation of my 
great popularity. As my wife's cousin Teddy ^ 
might have said, "A plain statement of 
truth about one's self should never be consid- 
ered egotism." For this reason I now, for a 
few pages, ask you to read what my wife has to 
say about me. She will tell you, humbly 
enough, of my early career, of our courtship, 
of our marriage, and of the greatest decision 
of our life — to make a three months' trip to 
the United States. 

Faithfully always, my American friends, 

T. Tubby. 

Burnhouse, Sussex, 
January, Nineteen Hundred and 
Twenty-Two. 



' The Hon. Theodore Cobbler of Bolgy House. 

[xiii] 



CONTENTS 



FOREWORD BY TIMOTHY TUBBY . 

MY husband's rise TO FAME: AN 
DUCTION BY THERESA TUBBY . 

CHAPTER 

I THERESA WINS A HUNT . 



n I SPEND THE NIGHT IN JAIL . . 

in I DISCOVER THE PULLMAN CAR . 

IV I MAKE CHICAGO MY OWN . 

V OLD MR. TUTWHEELER OF BOSTON 

VI THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY . 

VII AMERICAN WOMANHOOD . 

VIII I REVIEW MY AMERICAN TRIP 



INTRO- 



PAQB 

ix 



21 

39 

73 

103 

137 
171 
201 
231 
263 



[XV] 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

I WAS ATTENDING A SMALL TEA . Frontispiece 

PAGB 

A PORTRAIT OF THERESA ON HER FATHER*S DOWNS 3 1 

MR. SMIRK WAS COVERED WITH SMILES ... 45 

LILY FOUND THE BOTTLE 57 

IN LITERARY NEW YORK EVERYONE MUST HAVE 

HIS STUNT 77 

I MADE THE FATAL PLUNGE 95 

PEERING AT A RED HAIRED IRISHMAN WHO WAS 

FIRING INNUMERABLE SHOTS . . . . II 3 

ON, ON, FOR THE "piPUELLa!" 125 

LIKE A MAN, I STOOD ROOTED TO THE SPOT . . . 141 

I FELT BOTH EMBARRASSED AND AT SEA . . . 1 53 

WITH GREEK BOOKS RAINING ABOUT MY EARS . l8l 

hey! KICK HIM out! LISTEN TO THE BULL-DOG ! 203 

"OH yes!" CHIRPED THE YOUNG LADIES. "hOW 

SHALL WE FIND A HANDSOME HUSBAND?" . 241 

[xvii] 



MY HUSBAND'S RISE TO FAME 
An Introduction by 

THERESA TUBBY 



TIMOTHY TUBBY'S 
JOURNAL 

INTRODUCTION 

MY HUSBAND'S RISE TO FAME 

I doubt if anyone but myself and the Duke 
of Ledham has, up to this very moment, real- 
ized that my famous novelist husband's father 
was a blacksmith. I am proud to proclaim it. 
I remember when I told the Duke, that irre- 
pressible old wit. Alas! there is no one else 
who knew the young Theresa Turbot as did 
he! Shall I ever forget that night in the 
arbor? 

Theresa (languidly): Well, Leddy, I'm 
marrying. 

Leddy: My heart is broken, Terry. 

Theresa: It's a novelist, Leddy. 

[21] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Leddy: May his career be dedicated to 
writing of you, my dear. 

Theresa (with a flick of scarlet feather 
fan): Tush! — and his father was a black- 
smith. 

Leddy: Let him mend the broken hearts of 
your suitors, Terry, and strengthen the wast- 
ing physique of the Turbots. 

Great Heavens 1 What impudence! I 
slapped his cheek soundly; but being an ex- 
ceedingly high-spirited girl, really loved him 
all the more. He was wrong concerning the 
Turbot family. His elaborate show of de- 
mocracy led him into this silly error. My 
father ^ was a tall and sturdy man, with a sweet 
smile and a rotten temper, a cricketer, too, in 
his time; and my brother Tom, though he has 
none of my perseverance and only fifty per 
cent of my charm, could scarcely be called a 
weakling. V\\ grant Leddy this — that the in- 
fusion of a nip of blacksmith won't hurt the 
bluest blood. 

This contretemps took place in the famous 

* James, the late Earl of Turbot 

[22] 



My Husband's Rise to Fame 

arbor at Blaze, our ancestral home. How 
well I remember those great winding stairs 
at Blaze and how I used to scandalize the 
archbishops and even the curate by sliding 
down the banisters. Shall I ever forget the 
incident of the cat? It was my first manifes- 
tation of the famous Turbot cruelty. Of my 
later indulgences those who can best tell you 
are Sir Harry Bunn, Arthur Plimpty, and 
that gouty old renegade, the Duke of Gulp. 

The cat was black. I forget its sex; but 
then I was only four. I was standing at the 
top of the dark stairs looking down. I sup- 
pose that my Italian governess was in the gar- 
den, my French day nurse in the nursery, and 
my German night tutor safely in bed. Above 
me loomed a portrait of the first Earl of Tur- 
bot, booted and spurred, with his hounds at 
his heels. Along came the cat, purring con- 
tentedly. Something possessed me. Perhaps 
it was the old earl's spirit hovering near 
the portrait. I do not know. At any rate, 
I seized the poor pussy by her tummy and 
flung her down below me. She lay very 

[23] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

still. Then, like a humble little child, as in- 
deed I was, I sat down over my handi- 
work and wept softly at first, then more vio- 
lently. The handsome young stable boy found 
me there. He gave me a cheap cigarette, and 
to comfort me showed me how to smoke. 
This was a great day in my life. 

I have forgotten Timothy, for the moment. 
Speaking, however, of his rise to fame, the 
following anecdote serves to show one reason 
for his success. We had been walking down 
Piccadilly, and over tea at Claridge's were 
discussing Timothy's new nervous breakdown, 
when Lilly Darnley joined us. She hates me 
because she once copied one of my gowns and 
knows that I saw her wearing it at that scan- 
dalous garden party at Tip House on the 
night of the Duke of Cadley's murder. (Be- 
fore me now I have a letter which the world 
has never seen: dated, signed, which the 
world will never see. It refers to the poor 
dear Duke's sixth love affair. Alas! One 
may still see her selling violets on the Em- 
bankment.) 

[24] 



My Husband's Rise to Fame 

Lilly (trenchantly): At last Tubby has a 
successful book. 

Theresa (behind her cup): We are so glad 
that you consider it a success. 

Lilly (with widening eyes): How much 
he has learned of women! 

Timothy (behind his toast): I'm so glad 
you think so. 

Lilly : And how much like you, my dear, 
his dialog sounds. 

Timothy (eagerly): You did notice it? 
Fm so proud. I write down every single one 
of her bons mots in my little blue notebook 
which she gave me on my last birthday. 

The other reason for Timothy's success is 
obvious enough. You have only to turn to the 
frontispiece to know. Unlike most novelists, 
my Tubby is handsome. What he lacks in 
briskness of wit, he more than makes up in fine- 
ness of feature. Oh yes! He is far better look- 
ing and better dressed than Hugh Walpole, 
Arnold Bennett, or even your own Joseph 
Hergesheimer. One of your younger writers, 
a bubbling fellow not long left his twentieth 

[25] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

year, has something of Timothy's wistful 
beauty. I forget the young man's name. He 
writes verses, too, if I remember correctly. I 
met him at a ball at the Ritz. Like all Amer- 
icans, he promptly made love to me.' 

This characteristic of Timothy's called 
forth the following pathetic epistle: 

Dear, dear Mrs. Tubby : 

My husband, too, as you know, is a nov- 
elist. My life is one sadness after another; 
not that I blame him, poor dear. He's easily 
influenced and so attractive. It's part of his 
living to speak at women's clubs — and that 
explains it. 

You, however, manage Mr. Tubby so well. 

*In looking over ray American papers I ran across the fol- 
lowing verse. That young man sent it to me with a bunch of 
violets and lilies of the valley. It is curiously illiterate, yet 
the boy is well known in America. This is one of the literary 
phenomena of which we shall speak later. 

Oncet I met a English dame 

I seen her at a dance, 
I gotta get that dame, I says, 

I gotta take a chance. 

I ast her fer a kiss, I did, 

She gave her mit, the goose, — 

// thafs a kiss in London, 
I asks yer — Whafs the use? 

[26] 



My Husband's Rise to Fame 

He is gracious, without being flirtatious, and 
seems never to leave your side. A word of 
advice from you might mend a breaking heart. 

Affectionately, 

M. 

I wrote Mrs. M. My letter was twelve 
pages in all, so I quote only a part: 

"You poor dear; but I think you must re- 
member this. If you would hold your hus- 
band, never let him be bored. Fight with him, 
if necessary; but don't let things drift. Now, 
he's not particularly good-looking, and his 
personality is anything but pleasing; there- 
fore, the only reason that the women flock to 
him, is because he's famous. Make him 
realize this gradually. Push him into a vio- 
lent attachment for some silly fool who you 
know will throw him over as soon as he begins 
chasing her. Most of these lion-worshiping 
ladies simply want to ride their lion and use 
the whip once or twice in public. After 
they've displayed their prowess, they lose in- 
terest in the lion. It's not difficult to make a 

[27] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

fool of your husband, my dear. I could have 
don^e it myself, only I was too fond of you. 
Hold the mirror up to him. Show him that 
his one asset is his writing ability, and his 
only chance of happiness, you. 

"Also, do not hesitate to create a certain 
amount of jealousy in his own breast. You 
probably remember seeing me at Mrs. Tommy 
Grave Carter's studio party last December in 
New York. I sat next Porter Trace, and he 
kissed me quite brazenly. What a genius you 
Americans have for public embracing. Now 
Porter is a bore, and for some reason his wife 
did not speak to me a week later when I met 
her at that stupid old fool's, Mrs. Tusted- 
eager's. However, that event served its pur- 
pose; for Timothy was particularly tender 
with his little attentions that evening. 

"I remember the first time that I was ever 
introduced to the Dowager Duchess of Dux. 
It was the year I came out. I hadn't been too 
popular. My tongue was too sharp. In later 
years I have learned to use it only on those 
who make worthy enemies. It is useless, my 

[28] 



My Husband's Rise to Fame 

dear, to kill mere mice, when there are rats in 
the house. The old duchess was wearing 
black satin. She was short and pudgy in those 
days and the great loose folds of her many 
chins gave her an odd look. I had just been 
presented to her by Claxton Ewberry, whose 
mother had forced him to attend me that day. 
He was a stupid boy, with a chronic blush, 
had matured early, lived late, and was much 
the worse for wear. She sent him scurrying 
across the room to talk with Prissy Toms.^ 
Then she looked at me. Her eyes were cold 
blue, beady, and piercing. 

"Dux: You're unhappy, young lady, be- 
cause you're unpopular. 

"Theresa: Why — I suppose — 

"Dux (irritably): Of course you are. You 
talk too much. 

"Theresa (anxiously): What shall I do? 

"DuX: Talk less and use your eyes more. 

"It's good advice, Mrs. M., and both you 
and your husband would profit by it. My last 
word to you is this. Try to dissuade him 

"The eldest daughter of Lady Ardella Drear, of Drearcombe. 

[29] 



Timothy Tubb/s Journal 

from writing sex novels. There are other sub- 
jects, if not so appealing, at least worthy of 
his attention. The interest of the club women 
will lag as soon as they cease trying to find 
out whether the experiences he relates in his 
stories arc real or imaginary. Then, too, the 
growing eflFectiveness of prohibition (a bar- 
barous law, isn't it?) should aid you." 

A silly woman, Mrs. M., and most unap- 
preciative. She never even thanked me for 
my eflForts in her behalf. American women 
will ask advice of anyone concerning their 
husbands; but they don't like to be told the 
truth about themselves. 

I was writing, however, of my husband's 
career. Probably the thing which contributed 
more to its success than any one other * was the 
fact that all the members of our family, when 
we were young together at Blaze, used to play 
literary games. This, you see, prepared me 
for a literary husband. We were taught to 
respect poets and authors of other varieties. 
We did not class them with ordinary trades- 

* Except, of course, my marriage to dear Theresa. Tim. Tb, 

[30] 




A PORTRAIT OF THERESA ON HER FATHER'3 DOWNS 



My Husband's Rise to Fame 

people, as do some members of your American 
aristocracy (whatever that means!). I over- 
heard a most interesting conversation recently 
at an afternoon tea in a certain house on Park 
Avenue. A rather young New York editor, 
Mr. Smirk, whose manners sufiFer somewhat 
from his country rearing, was being quizzed 
by a stout society lady, Mrs. Blurr. 

Mrs. Blurr: I no longer allow my daugh- 
ter to associate with your friend Mr. Bustle. 

Mr. Smirk: And why is that, Mrs. Blurr? 

Mrs. BlURRS (high-toning him): She's 
just made her debut and is so innocent and 
you know he is occasionally seen with an ac- 
tress and lives in Greenwich Village. Do 
you blame me? » 

Mr. Smirk (obsequiously): Of course not! 
Do you know, though, I'm so worried about 
my young cousin who is an actor and whose 
mother has asked me to watch his morals. 

Mrs. Blurr (amazed): Your cousin, an 
actor! And why should you worry about his 
morals, pray! 

[33] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Mr. Smirk (turning away): He's been 
seen with a debutante, Mrs. Blurr. 

I have never been able to understand the 
American attitude toward the morals of ar- 
tists. The only difference between the life of 
an actor and the life of a millionaire is that 
an actor parades his follies and a millionaire 
keeps them under cover until his wife displays 
them in the divorce courts. 

Well, these literary games of ours were 
entertaining. One we had called Tittleteetum. 
We played it with toothpicks, which we bor- 
rowed from the servants' quarters. I shall 
never forget Papa's dismay when he saw me 
using one. "I'd far rather you'd take six 
drinks of Scotch^" he said, "than use one 
toothpick." Each toothpick represented a 
famous line of poetry, and the game was to 
guess the name of the poet by the arrangement 
of the toothpicks. You may imagine that it 
was difficult, but that it was possible you may 
believe from the fact that I always won ; and 
brother Tom occasionally made a lucky 
guess, in spite of his stupidity. 

[34] 



My Husband* s Rise to Fame 

This brings me to an account of the day 
when I first met Tubby. He was wearing a 
blue tie with red spots. I have always been 
proud of his taste in neckwear. It was at a 
dinner given by the Algeltons.^ Being mer- 
chants of a sort, they collect the literary. I 
knew at once that I would force him to pro- 
pose to me, though at that time I had not de- 
cided to accept him. However, I immedi- 
ately bought his books, and that decided me. 
There was a soul in them that one does not 
see in the man himself. 

To make a long story short — for it was 3. 
long story, getting Tubby to propose — we were 
married amid much gossip three months later. 
To assuage your curiosity I'll tell you how I 
did it. How curious you Americans are! 

Timothy: I do so want to pay a visit to 
America. I hear they treat the Indians badly. 

Theresa: Why don't you? 

Timothy: I don't like to go alone. 

Theresa : Why don't you take someone? 

•The Newberry Algeltons, manufacturers of the AlgeltOD 

bottles. 

[35] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Timothy (embarrassed): Would you like 
to visit America? 

Theresa: Yes — but I think we'd better 
marry first. 

Now you have the true story of our trip to 
the United States. 



[36] 



Chapter One 
THERESA WINS A HUNT 



CHAPTER ONE 
THERESA WINS A HUNT 

How weary we were after a few hours of 
being interviewed and photographed 1 This 
deep appreciation on the part of the American 
people was touching, but exhausting. Yet my 
publishers telephoned me every two or three 
hours, to say that editions of my latest novel 
were flying through multitudinous presses; 
that I must bear up under the strain and give 
the public what it demands : namely, a glimpse 
of me and of my aristocratic wife. This, it 
seems, is what sells a book in America. The 
public must see an author in order to believe 
that he can write. 

When my distinguished forebear, Charles 
Dickens,^ arrived in the town of Boston, he 

* The relationship was on ray husband's father's side. The 
Turbots were never so closely connected with the bourgeoisie. 
Tkr, Tb. 

[39] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

found his room flooded with oflFers of a pew at 
Sunday morning church. This fashion in 
America has apparently passed, though I was 
taken on sightseeing expeditions to various 
cathedrals whose architecture seemed to me 
to be execrable (largely European copies — 
nothing natively American). It was never 
suggested that I attend divine service. On the 
contrary, I had countless invitations to be pres- 
ent at what is known as a "cocktail chase." 
My New York literary admirers seemed 
tumbling over one another to offer me the 
keys to their cellars and to invite me to take 
part in one of those strange functions. It is 
their love of danger, rather than any particu- 
lar passion for liquor, that has, I believe, 
given birth to these elaborate fetes. 

A cocktail chase takes place shortly before 
dinner. It may lead you into any one of a 
number of places, even as far as the outlying 
districts of the Bronx. If you own a motor, 
you may use that; if not, a taxi will do. Usu- 
ally a large number of motors are employed. 
Add to this pursuing motorcycle policemen, 

[40] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

and the sight is most impressive. The police 
are for protection against crime waves, not for 
the arrest of the cocktail chasers. A revenue 
agent performs this function, when it becomes 
necessary. However, if I tell you the story 
of our introduction to literary New York, it 
will include the tale of one of the most thrill- 
ing cocktail chases in the history of Manhat- 
tan. I shall, therefore, proceed. 

The number of our invitations was so large 
that it was hard to pick and choose. Natur- 
ally, we did not care to risk attendance at any 
function which might injure our reputation. 
Usually my wife has an almost psychic sense 
of such matters ; but the Social Register was 
of no assistance in this case.^ Before several 
hours had passed, however, we decided to 
hire a social secretary. I phoned my pub- 
lisher for a recommendation. "Dear Tubby," 
he said, "what you need is a publicity agent 
not a social secretary. I'll send you the best 
New York can offer immediately. It was 

"Wc, of course, had entree to all the best Fifth Avenue 
homes, but since we have now become literary folk, we chose 
to remain so. We therefore avoided the better classes. Thr. Tb, 

[41] 



Timothy Tuhbys Journal 

careless of me not to think of it before. You 
seemed to have a genius for that sort of thing 
yourself." 

The publicity agent is difBcult to explain. 
He is somehow connected with an American 
game which originated in the great northwest, 
and which is called log-rolling. He stands 
between you and the public which is clamor- 
ing for a glimpse of you. The difference be- 
tween a social secretary and a publicity agent 
seems to be that the former merely answers 
invitations, while the latter makes sure that 
you are invited. He writes your speeches for 
you, sometimes even goes so far as to write 
your novels, and, in a strange place, will im- 
personate you at all public functions unless 
your wife objects.^ 

Mr. Vernay arrived, fortunately, in time to 
sort our invitations. "First," he said, "just 
you and Terry" (he was one of those brusque 
new world types and Theresa rather enjoyed 

•Indeed Mr. Vernay was a most accomplished gentleman, 
and I never objected to him. I only remarked once that I was 
glad Timothy was not so attractive to the ladies as Mr. Vernay. 
This, I did not consider an objection. Thr. Tb. 

[42] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

his familiarity — "so refreshing," I remember 
she said) "sit right down and I'll tell you all 
about literature in this here New York." 

I shall try to repeat his classification with 
some comments of my own. It seems that 
literary personages in New York City are di- 
vided into two large general groups: the older 
generation, and the younger intelligentsia. 
This division, it seems, is a recent one, ex- 
plained by the fact that it is only since the war 
that youth in America has been articulate. 
This so surprised the parental mind that every 
attempt is being made to repress the young. 
In fact, a special board of censorship has been 
formed to suppress all novels by those under 
the age of fifteen. If this were in England, 
I should think it absurd; but you have no 
right to judge the actions of the "elder writers" 
until you have met what is known as a "flap- 
per novelist." No method of suppression 
could be too drastic. There are two main 
flapper novelists: one male and one female; 
and though generally frowned upon by moth- 
ers, it is nevertheless true that their books have 

[43] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

a sale which last year very nearly equaled 
that of my own books. 

The next phenomenon to be considered is 
the "colyumnist." A colyumnist is a gentle- 
man taken from journalistic ranks and com- 
manded by his editor to become both literary 
and entertaining. He should be, preferably, 
a former prizefighter, or if he has not him- 
self worn the gloves, he, at least, should have 
been a sport writer. This makes it certain 
that he will approach art with a freshness of 
viewpoint. The American public demands a 
complete lack of knowledge on the part of 
its critic. "From knowledge springs preju- 
dice," the editor of a famous American fash- 
ion magazine told me. This gentleman, by 
the way, is a great authority on books. He can 
always tell the public what novel is going to 
be popular. He does this by leaving copies 
about slyly in millinery establishments and 
then, after a week has passed, counting the 
number of finger prints on the pages. It is an 
excellent test. One of the great publishing 
houses employs him as chief editorial adviser, 

[44] 




MR. SMIRK WAS COVERED WITH SMILES 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

sending manuscripts to him for this purpose. 
An author recently sued them for damages, 
having found a chocolate finger print on his 
returned manuscript. When the matter was 
explained he was, of course, very pleased. 
"Only fancy," he told me, "how dreadful I 
should have felt had there been no finger print 
at all, or if it had been found on the first page 
instead of the last." These colyumnists have 
great power. Most of them are chosen be- 
cause of what Americans term a "magnetic 
personality," which is the ability to keep one's 
self constantly and blatantly in the public eye. 
Having drawn to themselves, by this means, 
what is called a "following," they become ad- 
visers to this group of people on any one of a 
number of topics: books, plays, baby foods, 
race horses, politics, morality, and passion. 
They take the place of the great spiritual men- 
tors of old. It is well known that one of these 
fellows is constantly protected by private de- 
tectives, for fear of attack by irate husbands 
whose wives have followed his moral advice. 
A deputation of children recently petitioned 

[47] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

another lest he ruin their lives by advice on 
education. Still another was sued by a parent 
for having driven his eighteen year old son to 
take up life before the mast 

If an American author once becomes the 
friend of a colyumnist, he can hire a secretary 
to write his novels. His future is secure. 

Next come the "popular novelists." These 
ladies and gentlemen are retained at huge 
salaries by publishing houses because they once 
wrote a book that sold several hundred thou- 
sand copies. They dictate two books a year, 
each of which sells, by dint of much adver- 
tising, somewhat less than the last, until fin- 
ally, as the prices paid them by popular maga- 
zines rise, the sales of their books become 
negligible. They live in the suburbs as a 
rule, and do not mix with the other members 
of the literary community. Their mornings 
are spent with a secretary, their afternoons at 
horseback, golf, and social climbing, a pas- 
time which we will explain later. 

A» Mr. Vernay tossed away one invitation 

[48] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

after another he made the most caustic re- 
marks. 

"From Betty Tango, the illustrator. Bah I 
She mixes a good punch and wears interesting 
clothes, but she insists on being the lion at all 
her own parties. You'd get nothing there. 

"From Tommy Mascot — the dramatic cri- 
tic. You'd find an interesting crowd ; but his 
one effort in life is to make his friends uncom- 
fortable and his enemies miserable. Conse- 
quently he soon makes enemies of his friends. 
Hardly worth your while. 

"From Gerald Smirk, the young editor — 
too new to be important. A bore himself, so 
he chooses shocking friends. His parties are 
so mixed as to be impossible for Mrs. Tubby. 

"Oh!" Mr. Vernay smiled triumphantly. 
"Here we have it. This is an invitation for 
you and Mrs. Tubby to be the guests of honor 
at a salon at the favorite club of Arthur Star- 
buckle, the editor of *The Cravat,' a maga- 
zine *for men only.' This is the proper in- 
troduction to literary New York. If your 
neckwear happens to catch Art Starbuckle's 

[49] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

eye, you're made. I'll send out notices to the 
newspapers at once that youVe accepted this 
invitation." 

"But," I protested, "aren't you sending him 
any word?" 

"Oh, he'll see the papers'' replied Mr. Ver- 
nay. And that was how I learned how invi- 
tations are answered in America. 

"This salon, as you call it, what will it be 
like?" Theresa asked Mr. Vernay. 

Vernay smiled. "Anyone may have a salon 
in America," he replied. "A clever woman, 
or just a woman, or a man with salonic tenden- 
cies. All that's necessary is a good house, a 
good bootlegger, and a good publicity agent. 
Why, I myself have engineered twenty salons; 
all going full blast now, and ten of the host- 
esses were from the middle west. Think of 
itl And with only a high school education. 
They get away with it by studying the book 
of famous quotations and the French phrases 
in the back of a dictionary." * 

*I met a Mrs. Margrave at one of the places. She spoke 
constantly the most vulgar French of a cocotte, 

[50] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

At that very moment the telephone bell 
rang. 

Vernay leaped to his feet. 

"Get over to that desk!" he commanded. 
He seized some manuscripts from the tray 
of my trunk, threw them before me. "Mrs. 
Tubby," he shouted, "take the smelling salts, 
lie down on the chaise longue, and seem ill 
and bored. If you ever looked aristocratic 
in your life, do it now!" 

"But, my dear Mr. Vernay," Theresa 
gasped. 

"It's probably another interviewer!" Mr. 
Vernay stammered. "It might even be a sob 
sister.*^ At all costs we must be dramatic. 
Drama is the soul of the American woman's 
page. Is that gown you're wearing a Paquin? 

Theresa: Where did your learn your exquisite accent, my 
dear? 

Mrs. M.: My husband taught it to me. He studied so hard 
while he was with the army in France. 

Theresa {itAckedly) : You speak what is called Parisian 
French, my dear. 

Mrs. M. {thrilled): How interesting! Jimmie told me that 
he took lessons faithfully every evening while he was in Paris. 
Thr. Tb. 

"A sob sister is an elderly unmarried woman who writes of 
intimate marriage problems for the American papers. Thr. Tb. 

[51] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal • 

Couldn't you make it a bit more negligee?" 

Mr. Vernay turned, radiant, from the tele- 
phone. 

"It is, it is, I knew it was. He's come as I 
knew he would. It's Mr. Smirk. He's the 
Boswell of the younger intelligentsia!" 

"But Tubby's not young 1" Theresa pro- 
tested. 

"Ah!" and Mr. Vernay laid his finger along 
the side of his nose, a gesture which the Amer- 
icans have borrowed from the pages of my 
esteemed forebear, Mr. Dickens.^ "But he's 
intelligent. 

"You'll like Smirk," Mr. Vernay explained 
further. "He's a perfect tuft hunter. He'll 
do a paragraph about you both in his ^Notori- 
ous Notes'." 

"But we've just refused an invitation from 
him." 

"Oh that doesn't matter," said Mr. Vernay. 
"It's impossible to offend him. He'll invite 
you again." 

*In spite of all I can say, my husband will mention his con- 
nection with the vulgar old imbecile. Thr. Tb. 

[52] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

Mr. Smirk came in. He was covered with 
smiles, very young, blushing. His worship of 
our ability was nothing short of touching. 
Vernay pushed a note toward me. Smirk saw 
me take it, I'm sure, and turned away, blush- 
ing again. 

"He's a poet. Wrote *Sobs for Sinners.' 
Likes flattery. Has a poem about grapejuice." 

"I'm so sorry that I left my copy of *Sobs 
for Sinners' in England. It was all because I 
was so busy working on a new novel," I told 
Mr. Smirk. "Theresa so enjoyed the little 
ditty about lemonade." 

"Oh, it was so nice of her to remember it — 
only it was about limewater. What an honor 1 
What a joyl Actually to be recognized by the 
famous Tubby family. Are you coming to my 
party in honor of you?" 

Mr. Vernay apologized. ... 

"So sorry; but I'll have to have it just the 
same — for myself," said Mr. Smirk. "So 
pleased to have met you at last after these years 
of admiration" — and he bowed himself out. 

"That's finel" said Vernay. "Finel A 

[53] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

successful aflfair. You'll have to hand it to 
me; it was the grapejuice did it!" 

"But he did not interview us," I protested. 

"Didn't you tell him that you were writing 
a new novel? That's all he wanted to know. 
His own enthusiasm will do the rest. He's a 
noted enthusiasm slinger." ^ 

I quote a part of the interview which ap- 
peared a month later, as an example of the 
splendid way in which all shades of opinion 
received us in America. 

We found them, the two delightful Tubblcs, in their 
room at the Ritz. She (our fashion editor tells us that 
she was probably wearing a tulle dressing gown decollete ) 
was lying on a chaise longue upholstered in purple, her 
aristocratic little hand holding, not a cigarette mind you, 
but a tiny filigree bottle of smelling salts, to her nose. 
That nose ! That famous, delicately traced nose ! No one 
but a scion of English nobility could possess so distinctive a 
nose ! He, the great Tubby, was busy at his desk working 
at his new novel. How anxiously we await that novel. 
How the American public awaits it. We are proud to 
be the first one to announce it. Mr. Tubby told us the 
plot; but with our usual discretion we absolutely refuse 
to disclose it, 

'An enthusiasm slinger is a member of an American society 
called the Pollyanna Club. It is quite large and powerful, and 
its members wear a smile button concealed somewhere on their 
person. Thr. Tb. 

[54] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

"Do you like America?" we asked. 

"Do ir was all the distinguished Theresa replied." 
But how eloquent — and we shall never forget that nose 
poised above the smelling salts. 

Early the next morning while Theresa was 
still going through the papers to see how many 
times our names were mentioned, the tele- 
phone began to ring. It was Tommy Mascot, 
the famous dramatic critic. He wanted to 
know if we wouldn't attend one of his cock- 
tail chases before going to Art Starbuckle's 
party at the Bevo Club. At first we pleaded 
a busy day, but when he said, *^IVe heard what 
a great and successful fox hunter your wife 
is; you really can't deprive her of the unique 
pleasure of our newest athletic entertainment." 
— well really, we couldn't resist that. "I'll 
call for you a trifle early," he added. "You 
must see some of the sights of Times Square." 

Soon Mr. Vernay arrived for what he 
called a "strategic council of war." 

"I mustn't be seen with you," he explained. 
"Certain press circles are prejudiced against 

' Of course this was a misquotation — I never used so dreadful 
an American colloquialism! Not on your tintype! Thr. Tb, 

[55] 



Timothy Tubby* s Journal 

me. I usually work in disguises; in fact, I 
keep a variety of them for all occasions. To- 
night I shall use cork and livery. As a waiter, 
I shall be in constant attendance at your el- 
bow. You will know me by my black and 
white whiskers. If you can think of nothing 
to say, talk about literature. It is a safe sub- 
ject. None of the guests will know anything 
about it. Above all things be on your guard 
when T.N.T. is around." 

"And who is T.N.T. ?" we, the Tubbies, 
demanded in chorus. 

**Tom Taloween," replied Vernay. "He's 
the most powerful of the colyumnists. Why! 
He once recommended the wearing of sus- 
penders instead of belts, and every young man 
on Broadway could be heard snapping his 
shoulder straps for miles east and west. In 
fact, I strongly advise you to wear suspenders 
this evening. Bring up the subject, too. It's 
his hobby. He collects suspenders and has 
invented a musical instrument which is en- 
tirely strung with ancient flowered trouser 
supporters. Ask him to let you hear him play 

[56] 




LILT FOUND THB BOTTLB 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

Tschaikowsky on it, sometime. He'll appre- 
ciate that. Oh, you'll make a hit all right. 
How can you help it, with me around to tell 
you just what to talk to everyone about?" 

About four o'clock. Tommy Mascot bustled 
in. (I am told that he was chosen as dramatic 
critic because of his knowledge of poker play- 
ing.) 

"We must hurry," he bubbled. "I'm sure 
that no one has thought to show you our haber- 
dashery shops. I feel it my duty. Gomel" 

We hurried after him and soon found our- 
selves outside a window into which we all 
peered solemnly at a spectacular array of 
white raiment. 

"Dear, dear," sputtered Tommy Mascot, 
"we must have new neckties. Art Starbuckle 
will never allow us to appear as we are. Socks 
to match, too." 

"But — ^with a dinner jacket," I protested 
— "and where will we change?" 

"Oh we can put them on right in the taxi- 
cab," he assured us. "Bright green ties are all 
the rage with dinner jackets. They will 

[59] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

realize at once that we are both members of 
the same coterie if we wear bright green ties. 
Besides, I am well known as the man who 
always wants his friends to buy him a new 
tie." 

"But," I protested, "I haven't any money." 

"I'll lend you some," he offered. "And 

have you heard the latest?" We shook our 

heads. He looked exceedingly clever, then 

said: 

"Poor Theresa Tubby, 
Why didn't she marry a butter hubby?" 

We had been warned by Mr. Vernay that 
we must expect personal insults, as they are 
not considered insults at all in these circles; 
but this needed some explanation. It not only 
seemed to be insulting, but also unintelligible. 

"Oh, I see, slow on the uptake aren't you?" 
he gurgled. "It's a double play on words. 
Butter — tubby — hubby — better hubby — butter 
tub — don't you see now?" 

We didn't; but naturally we applauded his 
cunning. Later we found that a high pre- 
mium is placed on various forms of punning 

[60] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

in New York literary society. Little games 
are devised and a prize is offered each week 
for the best play on words. This is considered 
the height of brilliance. The winner of each 
week's contest is mentioned three times in 
T.N.T.'s colyumn. It is a fascinating sight 
to see these ladies and gentlemen and even 
little children shouting puns at each other and 
loudly claiming superiority for their own. 

"Now for the cocktail chase," said Tommy 
Mascot. "We must have another taxi, and yet 
another!" He hailed them. 

"Mrs. Tubby, please get into the front taxi. 
Go to this address" — he handed her a paper 
— "repeat these words" — he whispered in her 
ear — "they will give you my maiden aunt." 

We expressed our surprise. 

"She's for purposes of camouflage, you see. 
Who would suspect anyone of being on a cock- 
tail chase with a maiden aunt?" 

I could see the tears commencing to gather 
in Theresa's eyes; but that dauntless huntress 
would scarcely be swayed from her course by 
so simple an experiment as was this. 

[6i] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"You take the second taxi," Mascot com- 
manded me. "Ride three blocks east, half a 
block west, break three running boards and 
a couple of fenders and call Policeman No. 
322. He will tell you the whereabouts of 
my mother's sister's lady's maid. Fetch her." 

"How strange," Theresa remarked in spite 
of herself. "It is not customary in our coun- 
try to allow lady's maids to ride to hounds." 

"You see," explained Mascot, "you can't 
be particular about the social status of your 
pack of bootleggers. The young man who is 
walking out with Lily knows how to stalk 
Vermouth. We must have him. So run 
along now, and don't be too slow about it. 

"I myself am going to hunt for a revenue 
agent to bribe. They are easier to bribe than 
to find. Meet me in fifteen minutes at the 
corner of Forty-Second Street and Broadway." 

With that we all three hopped into our 
taxis, the motors began to chug, and the cock- 
tail chase was on. 

"Tapl Tap!" — ^what was this aged face 
peering in at the window as we careened 

[62] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

madly through the crowded streets? A mes- 
senger lad. I helped him to crawl through 
the window, so risking life and limb. 

"How do you do?" I said. 

"Mr. Tubby," he gasped. "I'm from the 
Trout publishing house. Here are proofs of 
our latest novel. Kindly read them at once. 
We must have a comment from you for our 
advertisements in the morning." 

This seemed strange; but I tore open the 
package, and after reading the first page 
realized that it was just another of these crude 
American attempts. I scribbled, therefore: 
"This is horrifying. It would be tragic to 
take time to read it." — T. Tubby. 

The morning papers bore the following 
legend : 

READ MAJOR DOBBS' NEWEST NOVEL 

Timothy Tubby says : 

"Horrifying. . . . tragic. . . . take time to read it.*' 
If the great English novelist spares his valuable hours 
to digest this novel, can you afford to miss it? 
Answer — your nearest book store! 

Now my taxi was swinging along in splen- 

[63] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

did fashion. Presently we hit an old lady, 
and then a little boy. The driver turned to 
me with a jolly grin : 

"That was a good one, wasn't it?" 

"Yes," I replied. "But are you following 
the directions?" 

"Sure," said he as he hit a fender just to 
prove his point. 

I gave Policeman 322 the "high sign," as 
the Americans have it. He pointed solemnly 
to a group of ten young ladies standing on 
the corner. They were all dressed similarily, 
short skirts, etc.— -the only difference that I 
noticed was — ^well, how was I to tell which 
was Lily? I asked No. 322. 

"Go ask 'em, you boobl" he suggested. 

I approached the group gingerly. I asked 
in tentative tones which was Lily. 

"You fresh guy," they shouted in unison. 

No. 322 came running over. 

"Hi, you English fella, waddye mean by 
accosting those young ladies?" 

I explained that I was looking for Lily. 

[64] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

"Oh, so y'are," he replied. "Well, here she 
be!" 

Lily greeted me cordially. "These are my 
companions de chasse/' she explained. 

"All of them?" I asked. 

She replied in the affirmative. Well, the 
long and the short of it was, we all piled into 
two taxicabs and with much screaming and 
shouting swept on magnificently toward Forty- 
Second Street. 

There I saw a strange sight. Theresa was 
pacing up and down in front of a cigar store 
with a doddering old lady on her arm. It 
was undoubtedly the maiden aunt. She 
looked so thoroughly respectable. 

"IVe forgotten it!" she was saying in piti- 
ful tones. "IVe forgotten the Lickertester." 

"She's forgotten the Lickertester," Theresa 
explained. "It's not safe to go on without it. 
We might capture some wood alcohol!" 

The young ladies were screaming, the taxi- 
cab drivers shouting, a crowd was gathering, 
Theresa was weeping, the maiden-lady aunt 
was leaning in a state of faint against a cigar 

[65] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

store window; when fortunately, Tommy 
Mascot arrived with a red-faced gentleman 
firmly held by the collar. 

"It's a revenue agent,'' he shouted, "and 
he refuses to be bribed. We'll have to take 
him along, so we will!" 

"Have you the Lickertester?" demanded 
Miss Teach — for that was her name. 

"Several," replied Tommy, as he jumped 
to the lap of a taxi driver, seized the wheel 
with one hand and the horn with another, and 
shouted: "Followl Follow! Follow!" 

I found myself alongside of Miss Teach, 
who was clapping her hands joyfully, thrilled 
as she was by the excitement of the chase. 

"Where are we going now?" I asked her. 

"We're stalking Vermouth!" she told me. 
"Can't you hear the Vermouth note in the 
cries of the taxi horns? It's unmistakable!" 

Suddenly all the taxis stopped. 

"What's happening now?" I asked Miss 
Teach, who was sobbing quietly. 

"Oh, how I hate to see any poor creature 
suffer ! Another revenue agent gone. They're 

[66] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

putting him down a manhole now. Poor little 
revenue agent 1" 

"Do you mean that they murdered him?'' 

"Not exactly that," she explained. "They 
bribed him with a bottle of bad whisky. He 
drank it. So that's that! Now we can go 
on." 

Then the motorcycle policemen joined us. 
They ran alongside and waved their caps at 
us, cheering us along. 

"I just bet you never saw a sight like this 
in England," said Miss Teach to me, and there 
was only one reply. 

Now we had come into the outlying dis- 
tricts of the Bronx. We stopped in front of 
an amusement park. Lily's young man, it 
seems, had hidden a bottle of Vermouth under 
the cushions of one of the cars of a ferris 
wheel. How to find it? All of us must take 
a ride. Alas! it was perilous, indeed, whirl- 
ing high above New York City and hunting 
under those cushions for the prize. Miss 
Teach became quite ill. I carried her to a 

[673 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

cab. But when Lily found the bottle it 
cheered everyone immensely. 

"On, on again," shouted the imperturbable 
Mascot, waving the bottle above his head. 
**Gin is the cry now! Aunt Annie! To your 
milliner's!" 

The mauve curtains of the millinery shop 
were drawn discreetly. For the first time 
during the chase we were quiet. The motor- 
cycle policemen crept along like so many 
hounds. By a back entrance we entered single 
file. It was dark. It was mysterious. Mas- 
cot spoke in a hoarse whisper: 

"Approach the ribbon counter softly. Feel 
with your hands among the ribbons. It is 
there lies the quarry." 

The ribbons were soft to the touch. I found 
nothing. 

A scream. A familiar scream. It was 
Terry! 

"I have it! I have it! I'm first!" She 
was waving a bottle of gin. 

"Here, let me test it." Mascot ripped out 
the stopper and stuck in a long tube. It was 

[68] 



Theresa Wins a Hunt 

the Lickertester. He lit the end of it. "If 
it burns red, it's good," he explained. "If it 
burns yellow, we must destroy it. . . . Ahl 
Fine!" 

"But that looks yellow to me," I warned. 

"Oh no, it's orange," contradicted Mascot; 
"that means it's pretty good. It may blind us, 
but it can't kill us!" 

There was a shout from the front of the 
shop. 

"A crime wave is on us! Flee! Flee!" 

From all directions I saw masked men with 
guns approaching. Theresa noticed my con- 
fusion. In the general melee she picked me 
up in her arms and ran to a taxi. Tommy 
Mascot was on our heels. 

"To the Bevo Club," he commanded. As 
we sank back for a well earned rest in the 
cushions of the cab, Theresa smiled her fa- 
mous, triumphal smile and, throwing back 
the furs that swathed her, displayed, — ^what 
do you think? Two bottles, one of gin and 
one of Vermouth. She had won the day. The 
quarry was hers. 

[69] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"Congratulations! I didn't think it pos- 
sible. You have, you have achieved a cock- 
tail. And what do you think of a cocktail 
chase?" 

"Very American," was my dear wife's only 
reply. 



[70] 



Chapter Two 
I SPEND THE NIGHT IN JAIL 



CHAPTER TWO 

I SPEND THE NIGHT IN JAIL 

"Well! Well!" and a hovering gentleman 
who seemed on all sides of us at once spoke 
breathlessly. "If here isn't the great Tubby, 
himself! Do you and Mrs. Tubby just stand 
still a second. Only a second, and, Mrs. Tub- 
by, look at that beautiful stuffed bird on the 
wall. That's it, smile! It's my favorite bird, 
the Fatu-ous-a-Bird. Its eggs are epigrams. 
They spoil very rapidly. Sometimes they're 
even bad when laid. Now! Oh! What a 
beautiful smile, Mrs. Tubby, and how often 
I've heard of that Lovely Tubby smile. We 
must have a picture of you just as you're being 
introduced to literary New York. There! 
Now! That's all right! Here we are! Oh, 
yes, so you haven't; haven't met me, I mean. 
But that's all right, old boy. I'm Art Star- 

[73] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

buckle, and what a charming green tie you arc 
wearing. All the rage now with dinner coats, 
and just like mine. Quite correct. How 
easily you Englishmen do catch on! Wish 
Americans were as quick at absorbing the cul- 
ture of dear old England." 

Here we were at last in the famous Bevo 
Club, that pasture for patrons of pleasure, as 
it has been so aptly called by Starbuckle, its 
founder. 

"Isn't it just like a page cut from The Cra- 
vat'?" he asked us proudly. "The Cravat — 
For Men Only" is the magazine that Art 
edits. Since I naturally did not care to say 
that I had never seen it, I nodded and smiled. 

What did the Bevo Club look like? A fu- 
turist art gallery? No. Marie Antoinette's 
chicken coop? No. A Paris hotel? No. 
Oh, I had it! It looked exactly like a — 

But Theresa here interrupted the train of 
my thought. She was asking Mr. Starbuckle 
what the requirements for membership are. 

"Trifling, trifling," he replied. "Each 
member must own a shooting box, have legs 

[74] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

that measure not less than six and more than 
ten inches around the calf, have written at 
least one act of a play, be able to talk in Esper- 
anto, and to wear a pearl grey hat without 
blushing." ^ 

It seemed fair enough. We looked about 
us. In all this array of light and beauty, is 
it not strange that, possessing the unusually 
psychic intuition of a true artist, I did not 
realize what a dreadful evening was in store 
for me, what tragedy, nay, what dual tragedy 
was to overtake me? Alas, alack! But more 
of that anon. 

"What's this?" Theresa was pointing to a 
most elaborate weighing machine just within 
the door. 

"Oh I" Starbuckle laughed. "Those are 
scales for measuring cleverness. An invention 
of Tommy Mascot's. We do not allow any- 
one who is heavyminded to enter here. We 
don't believe in mixing fluff with solidity. 
Above all, we must never be bored for a sec- 

^This embarrassed poor Timothy very much. He never 
plays golf because he can't bear to appear in knickers. Tkr. Tb. 

[75] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

ond. They take it well, though, poor souls, 
and if they find that they're growing heavy, 
they either reduce brain power, or leave us 
completely. Usually they are just as bored 
as we are, so that compensates. Here's a little 
group of 'em now; they asked to be allowed 
to stay a few moments, just so they could speak 
to you." 

"Don't you mind a bit," Theresa soothed 
them. "If they weighed us I've no doubt that 
they'd find us heavy, too. Meanwhile do tell 
us who you are, and I'm sure that Mr. Star- 
buckle will give you each a piece of French 
pastry to take home to the children — I'm sure 
that you have children." 

They nodded, as if they were afraid to ac- 
knowledge such a fact in the Bevo Club. 

"And who are you?" She addressed her re- 
mark to a heavy-shouldered, grey-headed 
gentleman with kind eyes. 

"Oh, I once wrote a book that was called 
*The American Epic' by the best critics. It is 
known in Europe and read widely in America, 
but though it is written in a simple, straight- 

[76] 




IN UTERARY NEW YORK EVERYONE MUST HAVE HIS STUNT 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

forward way, it does not please the younger 
critics, who tell me that I am still under the veil 
of Puritanism. You see, I have no place here." 

"Of course not, old dear, now run along." 
Mr. Starbuckle gave him a kindly shove. 
"You should dye your hair, take an apartment 
at the Plaza, appear intoxicated at the Palais 
Royal, label yourself an interpreter of modern 
life, flirt with other men's wives at country 
clubs and make notebooks of their shocking 
remarks, characterize with *damns,' and put 
bright orange covers on your books. Do all 
this, and wear a red geranium in your but- 
tonhole; then you'll be able to come back 
again for reweighing." 

Next came a lady with brilliant hair and 
an aristocratic manner obviously displayed. 
She leaned forward and whispered in my ear: 

"I padded myself so as to be considered 
heavy. It's not fashionable, therefore it's 
aristocratic. Don't tell your wife, but I'm 
really just as superficial as she is." 

Then she went on talking in high tones so 
that everyone in the room could hear: 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"Why do the young people go on writing 
about unpleasant things? Who wants to know 
how a member of the other half lives? Just 
because your shoes touch mud is no reason 
why you should acknowledge that mud exists. 
I and my generation had our vices, I'll admit; 
but we didn't talk about them, and we pre- 
ferred not to consider those who did. Well- 
bred people are never frank; and it was only 
well-bred people who read our novels. They 
don't want to read about cab drivers and 
stokers. Where is the tradition of Henry 
Adams? What has become of delicacy and 
taste? The literature of the drawing room 
is coming to be the literature of the sewer. 
Propaganda for mud I call it!" 

"Make way! Make way!" An impressive 
shout was heard. 

"What shall we do?" I gasped. 

"Stand perfectly still and do not be 
alarmed," the ever watchful and thoroughly 
impeccable and exceedingly tactful Star- 
buckle breathed. "It's T.N.T." 

[80] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

We saw T.N.T. at last. One could ob- 
serve immediately that he was a shy man. He 
had a shy walk. He did not seem to notice 
that he was the centre of attention. At his 
heels were two little dogs with eager eyes. 

"Those are publicity hounds," Starbuckle 
explained in a whisper. "They are quite do- 
cile and will hurt no one." 

Just at that moment T.N.T. reached into 
his pocket and brought forth something in 
one of his shy hands. 

"See!" hoarsed Starbuckle. "He's throw- / 

ing them crumbs. What a kind man! Now, 
he's coming to speak to you." 

"Ah! Tubby!" T.N.T. pierced me with a 
glance of his Satanic and majestic eyes. "So 
you're Tubby! You write absurd books." 
Then turning to Theresa, "But oh, madam, 
how beautifully those curls lie along the back 
of your neck!" 

He looked sadly at me again. 

"On the sixtieth page of your last book. 
Tubby, there are three Verys,' and on the one 
hundred and twentieth you have made your 

[8i] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

heroine say, *I have told you whosoever I have 
embraced.' . . . You should take to work- 
ing out our cross-word puzzles. It would im- 
prove your style. If you play tennis better 
than you write, let's have a set some time." 

I could not but respect his powers of ob- 
servation. 

Starbuckle now led us to the dinner table. 
It was elaborately decorated with lemon 
trees. Suddenly each one of us was presented 
with a lemon. Inside my lemon was a note. 
It said: 

Tubby — 

Do take lunch with me on Friday. 

R. T. T. 

I turned to the young gentleman at my 
right, feeling as I did so helpless without the 
guiding hand of Theresa, who was far away 
from me at the other end of the table. 

"What does this mean?" I asked. 

"It's a bid from R.T.T.," said this young 
fellow (for he was indubitably young, and 
seemed always worried). "You want to be 
careful. He's an enterprising publisher. He'll 

[82] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

get your next book at any cost. Why, he once 
locked me in a room, with champagne and 
plenty of beefsteak, until I had turned out a 
novel for him. He'll get his throat cut some 
day. I happen to know personally that he's 
watched constantly by private detectives hired 
by all the other publishers in America. It's 
a dangerous game, publishing. But have you 
heard what Tommy Mascot said about me? 
I haven't been able to write for a week. Why 
doesn't he like me? You must have seen him 
recently; has he said anything to you about 
me?" 

Suddenly I felt a tickling at the back of my 
neck, and looking out the corner of my eye 
I saw that it was part of a black and white 
whisker bobbing, as it were, in signal. Ah, 
the faithful Vernay, disguised as a negro 
waiter. That invaluable publicity agent of 
ours, always ready to prompt me at the slight- 
est need. 

"Tell him Mascot said he was the most 
promising poet in America I" the whisker sig- 
naled in the Morse code. 

[83] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

I did as I was bid. 

"Promising!" shrieked the young man. 
'^Did he say that? The blackguard! As if 
everyone didn't acknowledge that I'd passed 
far beyond the promising stage." 

For once Vernay had failed me. The 
young gentleman would not be satisfied. 

I turned to the young lady on my right. 

"Who are those people?" I asked softly.^ 

On a raised dais at the end of the room was 
a group of ladies and gentlemen seated about 
a round table. They were acting in what then 
seemed to me a strange manner; but I after- 
ward learned that they were simply doing 
"stunts." In literary New York everyone must 
have his or her stunt. These are done either 
during or after dinner, and are heartily ap- 
plauded by all. The same stunt may be done 
for a year. If it is repeated for two years, the 
applause is not so eager. This particular set 
of persons is famous for the camaraderie its 

*And Tubby pointed. I saw him point. This is a gesture 
which is taught American children from their earliest years. I 
have with great diflSculty broken him of the habit. Every morn- 
ing he says five times, "I must not point." Thr. Tb. 

[84] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

members show in appreciating one another's 
accomplishments. At the moment, one young 
gentleman was balancing on his head in the 
middle of the table. 

"Do the baby! Do the baby!" A general 
shout arose. 

"See, only see, Ted is going to do the baby!" 
My dinner companion roused me by her ex- 
cited tones. 

Doing the baby, it seems, in America, is a 
painful ordeal through which young authors 
must pass before they are allowed to sit with 
the gentlemen and ladies on the dais. In con- 
sists in wailing like a baby — it may be like 
any baby, or like one particular baby. This 
last seems to be a matter of choice. 

An embarrassed young man with glasses 
now arose. 

"But," he stammered, "IVe done the baby 
so many times. You must be sick of it by 



now." 



"Oh no! Oh no!" they chorused. "Never! 
YouVe such a beautiful baby. Go ahead, Ted 1 
We must have the baby." 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Indeed it was a most realistic interpreta- 
tion. He cried. He screamed. He drooled. 
He turned somersaults up and down the table. 

"Isn't he clever?" demanded Miss Shaft 
(for I afterward learned that to be her name) . 
"And isn't the Younger Generation wonder- 
ful? I've tried to bring a message to them 
in my book." 

The gentleman on my left whispered in my 
ear: 

"She plays an excellent game of checkers. 
That's her life work. Why should she write? 
She can't." 

By this time I was thoroughly bewildered. 

"Oh! Oh!" Again Miss Shaft pointed. 
"Tommy Mascot has come back from a Mrs. 
Fiske first night, just to do his imitation of 
a finale hopper for us. See! Seel" 

All I could see was my friend Mascot 
striding up and down the room with a table- 
cloth wrapped about his rotundity, and with 
unbuttoned and flopping overshoes. 

"Very clever!" I took my cue from Miss 
Shaft. "But what's a finale hopper?" 

[86] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

"Oh Mr. Tubby, you know, something like 
a flapper,^ feminine for a cake eater." 

Near me at the table a young man was ris- 
ii>g slowly to his feet. I remembered having 
seen him on the boat the day of my arrival. 

"Mr. Tubby," he commenced, "has come to 
America to promote friendship between Eng- 
land and America. Is he not much like the 
tailor in a far country who once said to the 
king—" 

"Not that one, not that one," came shouts 
from all about. 

"Or like Nora, going out into the night 
and slamming — " 

"No! No!" the shouts came again. 

"To say nothing of the bloodhounds on a 
cake of ice — " 

Again he was interrupted. 

"Well, Mr. Tubby hasn't heard 'em any- 
way. Have you, Mr. Tubby?" 

I shook my head. 

"At any rate, Mr. Tubby will cement this 

•a flapper is any female over thirty who wears skirts higher 
than the knee. Thr. Tb. 

[87] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

union by writing a book about America, which 
will be brutally frank and which will be read 
only in America. Let me introduce Mr. 
Tubby, who will speak to you on, on, on — 
anything he likes." 

I rose. There was tumultuous applause. I 
could feel Vernay's whiskers tickling my el- 
bow. It was a comfort to know that he was 
near. I could see dear Theresa looking so 
white and worried at the distant place along 
the white path of the lemon strewn table. How 
I burned to make her proud of me! I should 
speak of ideals, of the lofty spirit of America 
as typified by the Woolworth tower, of the 
motherly attitude of John Bull. ... I opened 
my mouth to speak — 

"Do us a stunt! Do us a stunt!" shrieked 
Miss Shaft. 

My knees began to tremble. Obviously I 
was not expected to speak. I was expected 
to do a stunt. But what stunt had I ? Vernay 
was signaling violently with his agitated 
whiskers; but I was too nervous to decipher 

[88] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

the code. Then Theresa's voice came, cool 
and lovely from the distance. 

"Remember the green frog, Timothy," it 
said. 

"Do the frog! Do the frog!" the shouts sur- 
rounded me. They beat in upon my soul, as 
I remembered that I had once amused a 
group of children by imitating a bull frog for 
them. Never mind, I told myself, you must 
come up to their expectations of you. When 
in Rome, etc. I leaped upon the table. Miss 
Shaft reached for my hand and gave it an en- 
couraging squeeze. 

"That's the good old boy!" she egged. 

I crooked my knees, and bowed my head, 
making little hops in this direction and that. 

"Garump! Garump! Rump-rump I" I 
groaned. 

"See the 'ittle froggie," came an encourag- 
ing coo. "Nice frog," from another. "Clever 
ladl" 

All the length of the table I garumped, 
until I was poised at the farther edge before 

[89] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Theresa herself. Art Starbuckle stretched 
out his hand to me. 

"Superb imitation, Tubby," he said; "I 
didn't think it of you." 

Sol I had proved to them that an Eng- 
lishman really is adaptable. I was a literary 
man among literary men. I had done my 
stunt. 

Starbuckle assisted me to my feet. 

"Well, old fellow, let's go out for a bite 
to eat. This will soon get to be a bore. We'll 
take just a small select crowd and go to the 
Fi-Fi Club." 

"But we've just eaten," I protested. 

"Oh, that doesn't matter," he assured me. 
"We'll be eating off and on from now until 
dawn." 

We slipped quietly away, and into a wait- 
ing cab. Just before I left Vernay cautioned 
me. 

"Don't hesitate to do anything you feel like. 
No matter what happens, it's all good pub- 
licity." 

[90] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

Alas, I had a chance to remember this later 
in the evening! 

"Here's a book for you, Tubby," said Cur- 
tis Flash, a critic from Chicago, who seems 
still a trifle nervous in the metropolitan at- 
mosphere and attempts to cover it by talking 
violently and unceasingly about a variety of 
topics. "It's by our American Rabelais," he 
explained. "Be careful of it. Better put it in an 
inside pocket. It's been suppressed. They were 
afraid that school children might read it and 
since they are becoming more precocious each 
day, that some one of them might understand 
it. You mustn't be caught with it on you." 

I tucked the book in my back pocket. Here 
we were at the Fi-Fi Club. I leaped out, in- 
tending that this should be my party. A 
noble figure of a man stopped me with a 
haughty gesture. 

"Yes?" he said icily. 

"Whatl" I parried. 

"Yes?" he repeated. 

"A table for sixl" I adopted my customary 
English manner toward servants. 

[91] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

He looked at me slowly. I found myself 
wondering if my shoes were properly pol- 
ished. 

"There is no more room," said the superb 
figure of a man, and turned his broad back on 
me. 

At this moment Art Starbuckle came for- 
ward. 

"A table for six," he said ; but in what dul- 
cet tones. The inflections of that man's voice 
are as admirable as any I have heard in Amer- 
ica. They command; but they also beseech. 
It is a gift. 

"This way, sir, plenty of room," said the 
superb figure of a man. I do not understand 
the ways of the Fi-Fi Club. 

Within, all was soft lights and gaiety. We 
sat down and ordered non-alcoholic whisky. 
It is a curious drink, not unlike cold tea. I 
looked about me. Everywhere were stout 
young men, dancing affectionately with statu- 
esque females. I was puzzled by the females. 
Bright hair, they had, and bright complex- 

[92] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

ions ; but on closer inspection I could see that 
the wrinkles about the eyes betrayed advanc- 
ing age. Art leaned toward me. 

"The Fi-Fi Club," he explained, "is Dr. 
Quill's playground. He's the famous psy- 
choanalyst, you know. These are the women 
he advises. Most of them are well over sixty. 
They come to him complaining of neuroses. 
He finds that they are simply repressing their 
true youth. *Be young,' he commands. So 
here they are, being young. Aren't they ad- 
mirable? It doesn't work so well with hus- 
bands — they're more rheumatic. Fox trot- 
ting is inconvenient for stiff joints." 

"Then who are the young men?" I asked. 

"Oh, they're young bond salesmen," he re- 
plied. "There's nothing like soft lights and 
romance and the unloosening of repression to 
facilitate the sale of bonds. These same young 
men play golf in the daytime with these same 
ladies' husbands. It's business with them; 
but they seem to enjoy it." 

"Couldn't I dance with one of the ladies?" 
I asked under my breath, for fear Theresa 

[93] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

might hear. There was no danger. Mr. Flash 
was absorbing all her ocular senses with an 
outpouring concerning French literature and 
aesthetics. 

"But you have no bonds to sell," Art pro- 
tested. 

"I have books!" I appealed. 

"Well, well, not tonight, Tubby, not to- 
night. I have other plans for you. We must 
have our dip before breakfast." 

"Dip? Breakfast?" I was puzzled indeed. 

Starbuckle was too rushed to explain. We 
were again on our way. Flash had not ceased 
talking of the highest in Art. We were speed- 
ing uptown. We stopped. Art aided us to 
alight. 

"This," he waved his hand about him, "is 
Columbus Circle, and here is the famous 
public fountain in which you shall now be 
given your baptism." 

This puzzled me greatly. Was it true that 
Americans were in the habit of taking their 
baths in public? Nevertheless, I was docile. 
Quietly we approached the black waters of the 

[94] 




I MADE THE FATAL PLUNOfi 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

fountain. A crowd gathered respectfully. 
Starbuckle, taking me by the hand, mounted 
to its rim. 

**This," he announced loudly, "is Timothy 
Tubby, the famous English novelist. He has 
come, as all good English novelists should, to 
bathe in the waters of the city. This is the 
token of true democracy." 

There were loud cheers. A young man 
leaped forward from the crowd. 

"Reporter! Reporter!" he shouted. "Will 
you give me your first impressions of how the 
water feels? It will be either warm or cold. 
Tell me first." 

I promised. As I stepped in, the crowd 
was hushed in awe. 

"Down! Down!" commanded Starbuckle. 
I made the fatal plunge. The water closed 
over my ears. As I arose, a new shout was 
mingled with the plaudits of the people: 
"Police! Police!" 

I felt immediately at home ; but at the same 
time ill at ease. 

"Get out of that there water!" came a voice. 

[97] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

I rose unsteadily. A burly figure stood be- 
fore me. 

^^I'm onta youl" said the voice. "I know 
whatcha got in yer back pocket." 

"Oh, officer," came the tactful tones of Star- 
buckle, "he's not a bootlegger, I assure you. 
It's only an English novelist." 

"I know him," went on the policeman, for 
it was none other than No. 322 whom I had 
encountered earlier in the day. "Take that 
book out of yer back pocket." 

I had forgotten the fatal volume. I reached 
for it. Dripping, I presented it to him. 

Suddenly his rugged face became wet with 
real tears. 

"So!" he grunted. "I been huntin' all over 
fer a copy of this here ^Jerkin' and now's I 
got it, it's all spoiled with yer foolin' in the 
f ounting. C'mon 1" 

"But you're not going to take him to court?" 

"Better'n that I guess," said No. 322. "He 
sleeps tonight in jail. I guess I know none 
of you literary guys has got enough cash to 
bail him out." 

[98] 



/ spend the Night in Jail 

Theresa was weeping; but no one seemed 
to offer pecuniary assistance. The reporters 
had now taken out their pocket Coronas and 
were waiting for a statement from me. The 
clang of the patrol wagon was heard in the 
distance. 

"I am happy to spend a night in an Amer- 
ican jail," I began. "My ancestor Charles 
Dickens was interested in prison reform. Am 
I prouder than Mr. Pickwick or Sam Weller? 
Shall I not be delighted to see how this great 
city treats its criminals?" 

Without ceremony I was bustled into the 
patrol wagon. But in my cell that night I 
found the first intelligent American I had 
met. He was a pickpocket. We discussed 
literature until dawn. So it was I found the 
true heart of literary America. 



[99] 



Chapter Three 
I DISCOVER THE PULLMAN CAR 



CHAPTER THREE 
I DISCOVER THE PULLMAN CAR 

New York had proved too exhausting for 
Theresa. She can endure just so much and 
no more, then she demands a complete mental 
rest. We were advised to go to Chicago. 

There, we were told, we would find great 
open vistas and bright faces, bluff cordiality, 
and that developing naive interest in litera- 
ture which in children and primitive peoples 
is so refreshing. However, there was the trip 
before us, and, strange to tell, no one thought 
of warning us of the perils and exhaustions 
of traveling in America. 

The night before we left was exceedingly 
trying. It involved, among other things, a 
visit to one of the meetings of the Poetry So- 
ciety of America. There are many types of 
meetings in America, I find, but the Poetry 

[103] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Society stands quite alone. It was founded, 
apparently, for the purpose of allowing cer- 
tain persons, otherwise more or less well bred, 
to quarrel in public. Free verse has become 
a political issue in America. The mayor of 
a certain western town was elected on a free 
verse platform. Another of his planks was 
free love ; but, to quote the sheriff of the vil- 
lage, who spoke to me in confidence, "Free 
verse elected him, by heckl" The interest in 
literary problems is very great in America. 
Curiously enough, reading itself is rarely in- 
dulged it. 

We arrived late at the Poetry Society. 
The room was crowded. A tall gentleman was 
reading an anonymous poem. He read in an 
academic manner, with abdominal quavers 
that were supposed to indicate poetic feeling. 
I found out afterward that, in his youth, he 
had himself written poems. Later he in- 
vented an animated hair brush, from the sales 
of which he was able to publish (at his own 
expense) his volume of verse, and in addition 
to save enough money so that he might live 

[104] 



/ Discover the Pullman Gar 

up to his passions. "I express myself in liv- 
ing now," he was heard to say, "and have no 
further need of giving vent to my desires in 
poetry." 

He read, slowly and distinctly. The bare- 
shouldered ladies nodded their heads to the 
rhythm, sometimes having difficulty with their 
nods, due to the fact that no rhythm was dis- 
coverable. 

REACH 

O, Woman of the tortured heart reach up, 

Strain toward the sky, 

Strain toward the moon, 

Draw down ecstatic moments from the peaks of stars, 

You know the beauty of their rounded limbs, 

You know the speech of glory, 

The sound of winds along eternity's waste spaces. 

Squirm through the slime of mere mortality, 

Reach out! 

Reach ! Reach ! 

Where, in passionate accord with the clouds, 

Your little soul will sink to happiness. 

Be not an earth-clod, 

Hear the message of the comets. 

Reach to the Heavens with your delicate lovely 

hands. 
Lose yourself in the universal urge. 

The reader paused. There was uncertain 

[105] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

gloved applause. A stout motherly person 
rose. She pulled her gauze scarf about her 
with a movement of patient indignation. 

"Doesn't it seem as though it were time 
someone wrote some real poetry? Personally, 
I don't understand a word of what Mr. 
Grump has just read. What I do understand, 
if I interpret rightly, doesn't seem to me to be 
at all nice." 

A young man with a mop of black hair 
leaped to his feet. 

"Nice? Nice?" he shouted. "Why should 
poetry be nice? Is life nice? Are you nice? 
If you are nice, it's because you're afraid not 
to be nice. I call that a beautiful cry of ex- 
pression. I insist that it's the outpouring of 
a sensitive feminine soul." 

A slender man with white hair rose gravely. 
"Indeed, when I was a child," he said with 
deliberation, "we were taught that it was im- 
polite to reach. How our manners are chang- 
ing. It is a great pity. The word *reach,' 
itself impolite, was used five times in that 
poem. What's to come of us?" 

[io6] 



I Discover the Pullman Car 

"Now, now, Mr. Sputz," soothed a gentle 
lady with a lyric voice. "That's all in the 
way you look at it. IVe always taught my 
children that it's far better to reach for a thing 
than to make someone else reach for it. This 
is an age of reaching, and if we do not teach 
the little ones to reach, they will soon be swal- 
lowed in the vortex of rising commerce." 

Another elderly gentleman joined the fray. 

"Commerce, my dear lady, will engulf us 
all if we do not return to the sweet clear music 
of another day. Modern children are not 
educated at all. They grow." 

"Do you mean to say," interrupted the lady 
who had just spoken, "that my children are 
not educated? This is outrageous. Must I be 
insulted from the floor of the Poetry Society? 
Indeed I shall leave at once. And resign, I 
am thoroughly offended." 

She walked out majestically, in spite of all 
efforts to soothe her rufHed feelings. I was 
becoming distinctly oppressed. I could con- 
tain myself no longer. I spoke. 

"But what has all this to do with poetry?" 

[107] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

I asked them, for it seemed to me a most ob- 
vious question. 

The young gentleman with the black hair 
again leaped to his feet Further to empha- 
size his point, he leaped to a chair. 

"Another Englishman in our midst," he 
shouted, pointing his finger at me. "What 
do you know about it, sir; why should you 
give an opinion in an American Poetry So- 
ciety? Don't you know that it isn't the gen- 
tlemanly thing to do? What has the British 
point of view to do with poetry? Nothing 1 
Precisely nothing!" 

Hisses sounded. There were angry cries. 
Someone shouted, "Bravo!" Someone else, 
"Police!" The young man flung off his coat 
and made a rush for me. Someone grabbed 
him. There was a scuffle and a scream. The 
lights went out. There was a police whistle. 

"The place is raided!" came the familiar 
cry. I seized Theresa's hand and we made 
for an open window, and dropped quietly to 
the ground two stories below. There were no 
casualties, and we succeeded in reaching our 

[io8] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

hotel, peacefully. It is magnificent, is it 
not, how seriously literature is discussed in 
America, particularly poetry? 

"I couldn't get you a drawing room," Mr. 
Vernay explained, as he escorted us toward 
the Grand Central Station; "but here are two 
lowers, and I'm sure that you will find them 
quite comfortable. At any rate," he added, 
"you will have no one bothering you with silly 
questions." 

Alas, how little most Americans know of 
their own America! 

By daylight, a Pullman car is reasonably 
attractive. The tortures of the night are hid- 
den by quiet green upholstery, and a suave 
negro servant moves hither and yon along the 
aisle. The cars are named, so they told us, in 
memory of the deceased wives of railway em- 
ployees. Ours was most musically titled. 
"Pipuella," it was called, and the name rang 
pleasantly in our ears as we entered, and were 
stowed away with our luggage in the green 
seats, Theresa in one section and I in another; 

[109] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

for you see, I was planning to dash off a few 
letters. We were still lying alongside in the 
station. 

"Vite! Vitel Vitel" came strains of unmis- 
takable French to our ears/ 

^^It's a French maid," was the very first 
thought that came to my wearied mind. And 
so it was. As exhausted as I had become, my 
intuitive faculties were yet alive. Her "Vitel 
Vite!" was simply an affectionate and throaty 
entreaty to the porter to hurry. Now she was 
not only a maid, she was pretty. This last fact 
so occupying my attention that I failed to 
notice the maid's mistress until she was almost 
upon me. 

I knew it! The first characteristic I no- 
ticed was her eyes. Blue hawk's eyes. What 
was it about them that seemed so familiar? It 
was the quality of recognition! She knew me 
for who I was. I was undone. A sweeping 
woman, with an elderly look, clad in long 
silks and short furs. Yet she would not have 

* Tubby means that American French is sometimes very hard 
to distinguish from several other languages. Thr, Tb, 

[no] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

been terrifying had it not been for that look. 
Her eyes gleamed at me as she passed. Twice, 
in her progress down the aisle, she turned to 
stare again. She was, apparently, occupying 
the little room at the end of the car. Would 
she be discreet? Would she withstand the 
impulse that I had seen in those eyes? Would 
I be left in peace? I saw her turn to the 
porter. I saw her ask him if he knew who I 
was. My heart grew cold. He replied in 
the negative. Another respite, and I drew a 
relieved breath. Then she spoke to him again, 
and I saw him approaching. Theresa, mean- 
while, absorbed in a book, had not seen the 
early stages of the tragedy that was about to 
engulf me. 

"The lady would like to know,'' the porter 
commenced, "if you happen to be Mr. Tim- 
othy Tubby." I nodded, miserably. "Well, 
then, she says that her name is Mrs. Camberry, 
and she's from Boston on her way to a conven- 
tion or something, and would you be kind 
enough to come to her drawing room." 

The die was cast. I mumbled a feeble 

[III] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

assent and, with scarcely a glance at Theresa, 
moved grudgingly along the aisle. Of such 
was fame, I pondered, remembering Caesar 
and other celebrated gentlemen who had been 
undone by greatness. 

Mrs. Camberry rose to greet me. 

"How delightful this is! For years I've 
wanted to meet you. We are so anxious to* 
have you come to Boston. You know Boston 
has not quite outgrown the traditions of Long- 
fellow and Whittier. The rest of the country 
may think that we are asleep; but we have 
our Irish problem and Amy Lowell. You 
must come to Boston! However, that's quite 
beside the point, which is, that I've seldom 
been so intensely pleased as to find you on 
the same train with all of us." 

"All of us?" I gasped. 

"Yes, didn't you know? Just a little group 
of writing folk going to the convention of the 
Pencilcraf t in Chicago. I'm burning with the 
news that you are on the train, and I've sent 
our porter through the other cars to spread it. 
Believe me, you will not want for company — 

[112] 




PEERING AT A RED HAIRED IRISHMAN WHO WAS FIRING INNUMERABLE SHOTS 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

and how does it seem to be traveling without 
your wife?" 

Indeed, I had no opportunity at all to set 
her at rights ; for she went on talking. 

"A wife is so inconvenient on trips. If I 
were not a native of Boston, I suppose I might 
say she ^cramps your style.' But as it is, nat- 
urally, I leave all that to your imagination." 

I did not understand either her language or 
her meaning. She seemed to me a most per- 
turbing woman. 

*^Don't you think it would be nice if you 
gave us just a little informal address here in 
the car — just a gossipy talk, you know, the 
kind you're so famous for? We'd so love it. 
Then, of course, you'll speak at the Pencil- 
craft dinner in Chicago. Indeed, the Pen- 
cilcrafters would not think of letting you 
escape them." 

Just at this point an avalanche of women 
burst into the "Pipuella." They wore smiles. 
They gurgled. They emitted little cooing 
sounds. In the midst of their swirling draper- 
ies, I seemed to see Theresa, rising, like 

[115] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Aphrodite from the waves. Mrs. Camberry 
closed the door with a bang. 

"WeUl not be disturbed yet, no indeedyl 
We'll just have a nice little talk all our own." 

Mrs. Camberry settled back with those in- 
definable motions which prophesy long and 
flowing exercise of a vocabulary of superla- 
tives. 

**Do tell me," she began, "what you think 
of the temperament of the American woman." 

This was an extremely direct question. I 
took council with myself. Should I be tact- 
ful? Should I tell the truth? I cleared my 
throat several times, as though I knew exactly 
what I was about to say; though, to be sure, I 
didn't know at all. ... 

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" came the grateful 
sound of someone knocking at the door. 

"How stupid!" exclaimed Mrs. Camberry; 
but before she could stay the inevitable, the 
door swung open. I had expected to see The- 
resa. But no, it was the conductor. He wore 
an angry expression. 

"What does all this mean?" he rumbled. 

[ii6] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

•*You are upsetting things considerably. Hun- 
dreds of women are buzzing around this door. 
They will not be quieted. They shout, *Tub- 
byl Tubby r Is there anything you can do 
about it?" 

Mrs. Camberry smiled graciously upon 
him. I knew that she was about to introduce 
me to those Pencilcraf ters of her. I could see 
them now, sitting on the seats and on top of 
the seats and in the aisles. A poet might have 
likened them to a sea of many-colored pop- 
pies. As for me, there was one thing I could 
do. I did it. Pressing my two hands vio- 
lently against my head I shouted, "Oh my 
head ! My poor head !" and with cries of hys- 
terical pain I breasted that agitated mob. I 
made for the smoker, while women fell away 
from me like a line of falling dominoes. The 
smoking car was crowded with men. They 
looked at me suspiciously. But the suspicion 
of men is far better than the admiration of the 
ladies. For a moment I stood there breath- 
lessly, endeavoring to regain my composure, 
a thing which, though seldom lost, is most un- 

[117] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

pleasant to lose. The men became silent as I 
entered. They chewed the ends of long black 
cigars. I could feel the waves of their dis- 
pleasure sweeping over me. Still they were 
silent. If only I could have found a place to 
sit down. If only they had gone on talking. 
Anything would have been better than that 
terrible silence. Where should I go? What 
should I do? I saw a bell. I didn't know 
what the bell was for; but it gave me a chance 
to move. With all the eyes in the smoking 
room watching me suspiciously, I slowly 
pushed the bell, then waited. 

Who should appear but the suave negro. 

"And what can I do for you?" he asked. 

So that was it. He wanted to know what 
he could do for me. All the men smoking 
black cigars and eyeing me suspiciously 
wanted to know what he could do for me. 
What could he do for me? What did I want? 

"Well?" and his tone became bitter. "What 
do you want?" 

"Nothing!" I blurted out. His scorn was 
superb. I could hear a titter commencing to 

[ii8] 



I Discover the Pullman Car 

rise. Could I not redeem myself in some 
manner? 

"Or would you bring me a cigar?" I asked 
timidly. 

"Oh, a cigar 1" The chorus of men was ap- 
preciative. "Here, have one of mine, old 
top. Best brand they make." 

Now I never smoked a cigar in my life. 
However, as I looked down at the large frame 
of the genial gentleman who was offering me 
a huge and strange black cigar, he seemed 
like .a very haven of refuge. He moved over 
and made a place for me. 

"Ain't women hell?" he asked. "You just 
sit here and have your quiet little smoke. It 
must be a horrible thing to be famous like 
you are. Here, lemme give you a light." 

The cigar was lit. I am sure that it was a 
typically American cigar. So virile, so strong. 
I puffed it contentedly. 

"You're literary, ain't you?" said the gentle- 
man donor of the smoke. 

I nodded. Somehow I felt a storm ap- 
proaching. Was he about to ask me what I 

[119] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

thought of that strange American phenome- 
non Harold Bell Wright? But no, it was 
worse than that. 

"Now my wife, she writes. Ain't it won- 
derful?" 

There was a chorus of "oh's" and "ah's" 
from the men about us. They drew nearer to 
hear of his wife's writing. Meanwhile, I was 
not becoming accustomed to the cigar. It 
seemed, somehow, to affect my head, and the 
voice of the gentleman telling the story of 
his wife's genius was far away. 

"You see it was this way," he went on. 
"When my wife was seven she went and wrote 
a poem. Her mother sent it to a paper and 
what do you think — they printed it! Well, 
that sorta got the idea into my wife's head, 
and ever since then she's writ a poem a day 
rain or shine except when the babies was bein' 
born and then she dictated 'em to the nurse. 
A wonderful woman, that persistent! Now I 
was wonderin' what with you bein' a writin' 
man if you'd like to look at them there poems." 

All eyes were looking at me, expecting the 

[I20] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

genial nod of pleasure. It was the effort of 
calculating the probable number of days since 
his wif e^s seventh birthday, and the consequent 
number of poems I should be obliged to read, 
combined with the disturbing effect of the 
cigar, that did it. At any rate, I fainted away. 
Life, becoming too complicated, kindly gave 
me respite. 

"Bang! Bang! Rattle! Bump!" I woke to 
the most uncomfortable of situations. I seemed 
to be lying in some sort of prison. I lifted 
my head only to bump it soundly against 
something above. I tried to stretch out my 
feet. They bumped also. Suddenly a cold 
sweat broke out upon my body. I had died 
and was buried — buried far away from my 
native, my own, my beloved England. Like 
a flash, I saw the lines written to me by my 
friend Robert Pickles, the Georgian poet: 

Dear Tubby lies in foreign soil, 
His feet upturned to stranger skies, 

Alas, that England rocks him not, 
Nor British winds sing lullabies. 

Critically, I objected to these lines, for my 
feet were not turned up. They were most 

[121] 



Timothy Tubby's Journal 

dreadfully cramped. However, I soothed my 
tortured spirit; I could forgive poor Robert 
almost anything for thinking of me in the 
midst of his many engagements. 

No, I couldn't be buried! Peace, at least, 
would be found in the grave. This was tor- 
ture. Suddenly there was a wild lurch and I 
rolled rapidly over, felt myself falling, landed 
with a loud cry, grabbed at something, heard 
a feminine shriek, and felt a hand on my col- 
lar dragging me to my feet. 

^'Haven't you caused us enough trouble 
without trying to pull a poor lady out of her 
berth?" It was the suave negro again, and 
this time he appeared to be quite angry. 

However, I, too, was very angry. 

"Where have you hidden my wife?" I 
shouted. 

All along the dark space in which I found 
myself I saw heads darting out. There were 
curses and little squeals. Finally, I recog- 
nized Theresa. 

"I'll take care of him," she assured the ne- 
gro. "Leave him to me." 

[122] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

She was in a negligee, lying back of one of 
the curtained apertures. 

"You see, Tubby," and she was more sooth- 
ing than annoyed, "this is the way they do it 
in America." 

"Do what?" I sputtered. "What is it they're 
doing?" 

"Sleeping, my dear. Now be a good Tubby 
and get into that apartment next to mine. 
Close the curtains. Button them, and un- 
dress." 

"Undress 1" I was aghast. "What for?" 

"To sleep, of course," she patienced. "Hur- 
ry, dear." 

I did as she told me. Or rather, I started 
to do as she told me. I first tried to take off 
my coat; but gave that up as a very difficult 
operation. Every time I nearly got one sleeve 
off, I bumped my head. I spent a few mo- 
ments feeling the various sore spots and trying 
to decide whether or not they would develop 
into permanent disfigurations. Then, I tried 
the trousers. Really, I have since found that 
American men are trained as acrobats in their 

[123] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

youth for this very purpose. After five sepa- 
rate attempts I lay back and regained my 
breath. I would not stay in that place an- 
other moment. 

I put one foot out gingerly, then the other. 
Before long, quite to my surprise, I was stand- 
ing alone in the aisle. Falling this way and 
that, I was finally forced to my knees and 
crawled along the car until I reached the end. 
Ah, the smoking room! Everyone had prob- 
ably gone to sleep. I could be alone. I en- 
tered. 

"Begorra and here ye are at last!" 

A gruff voice greeted me. I looked and 
there sat a tall red haired man. His eyes were 
ominous, and resting on one knee, within 
ready reach of his brawny hand, was a re- 
volver. Perhaps this was the watchman of 
the train. I had heard that mails were 
guarded in Chicago, and that murders were 
common in the public thoroughfares. 

"Good evening," I began, pleasantly 
enough. 

[124] 




ON, ON, FOR THE "PIPUELLA!** 



I Discover the Pullman Car 

He glared at me silently and his hand 
reached for the weapon. 

"It's a pleasant evening, isn't it?" 

Again there was silence, as his muscular 
hands played with the revolver. This was 
telling on my already strained nerves. I 
turned to go. Evidently he was not a so- 
ciable person. Perhaps he was one of the wild 
folk from the great western plains, where life, 
one hears, is held lightly, and the finger sits 
with little weight on the ready trigger. At 
any rate, he did not appeal to my aesthetic 
sense. 

"No, ye don't," he said quietly but firmly. 
"Ye kin sit down right here while I talk to ye. 
Ye're English aren't ye? Well, I'm Irish, 
that's all, and I'm a little dhrunk, maybe; but 
that makes no diflference." 

I hesitated. 

"Sit down," he commanded. "Is this or is 
this not a gun that I'd be havin' here, and I 
kin use it, too. I'd die fer the ould counthree 
I would, s'elp me, and" — he looked up and 
down — "perhaps ye'd be havin' sixty-five dol- 

[127] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

lars left fer a coffin. That's about yer size, 
I'm thinkin'." 

"But," I protested, "what's the matter? 
What have I done? What are you going to 
do? I'll ring the bell." 

"No ye won't. Now ye kin go ahead and 
explain to me, what it is yer counthree intends 
doin' to mine." 

"Now my dear sir, I'm a literary man, and 
I know nothing of politics." 

"Litherary man is it? Well, thin I'd best 
be puttin' ye out of the way annyway, that's 
what I'd best be doin'." 

I thought rapidly. If I was to die, I might 
as well die quickly as to prolong the agony. 
I rose with dignity, turned my back to him 
and made for the door. 

"Slow down, there, I'm fer bein' afther 
ye." I could feel him back of me. I fled 
headlong down the aisle. He was close in 
pursuit. Fortunately we had just drawn into 
a station. I would get off that car as quickly 
as possible. As I reached the platform a shot 
whizzed by my ear. There was commotion 

[128] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

and the sound of a struggle. I did not turn 
to see what was happening but rushed down 
alongside the train. I reached a gate. 

"How long does this train stop here?" I 
asked a guard. 

"One hour," was the reply. 

I could take an hour's vacation then ; at the 
end of that time perhaps the drunken man 
would have forgotten me or gone to sleep. 

Outside in the station, the first thing I saw 
was — what do you think? A counter where 
they sold books and candy. A sleepy boy 
stood back of it. Always mindful of the du- 
ties of an author, I approached him with the 
famous Tubby smile. 

"Have you a copy of ^Garden Dreams' by 
Timothy Tubby?" I asked. 

"Sure." He brought one out. "Wanta 
buy one?" 

"Oh, nol" I replied. "Fm the author of 
the book, and I was just wondering if you 
had one." 

"So" — his lip curled in scorn. "So you're 

[129] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

another one of them guys what's looking for 
their own book." 

*'Yes," I replied, pretending not to notice 
his unpleasant glances. "And you could help 
me a great deal if you only would. If you 
could hide me behind your counter for just 
a moment. There's a man with a weapon run- 
ning after me, and I'm afraid that he might 
take good aim, if he were to catch up with 
me." 

"I thought sol" the boy sang out, and mo- 
tioned to a policeman standing in the corner 
of the station. "Here Bill, here's a nut just 
ran off a train. Better ship him up to the 
'sylum. Says he's Timothy Tubby. Plum 
nutty, I call him." 

This was too much. I produced a wallet 
and a card. Even then the policeman seemed 
doubtful. 

"Well, maybe you are and maybe you 
aren't," he said musingly. "But you just bet- 
ter hustle yourself back onto your train. You 
seem to be crazy enough anyway." 

Footsore and with fear of the Irishman in 

[130] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

my heart, I went back through the gate and 
approached my car. I climbed the steps wear- 
ily and went toward my berth. I put one foot 
in. There was a cry of rage. A fat gentle- 
man burst out and stood in the aisle in front 
of me. 

"What do you mean," he shouted, "stepping 
on me that way?" 

"I beg your pardon," I stammered. "Isn't 
this the Tipuella'?" 

"What do you mean, Tipullala'?" he 
gurgled. 

Then a light dawned in his eyes. 

"Why," he said, "IVe seen your picture 
somewhere. You're Fatty Arbuckle, aren't 
you ? Pleased to meet you, and how did you 
get away with it?" 

"Oh, no," I protested. "I didn't get away 
with anything and my name's not Arbuckle. 
You've probably seen my picture, though ; I'm 
Timothy Tubby, the famous British novelist, 
and I'm apparently lost." 

He looked disappointed, but nevertheless 
I could see that he was one of these Americans 

[131] 



Timothy Tubby's Journal 

who are so easily impressed by a picture in 
the paper. 

"Sorry you're lost," he said. "Let me help 
you find your way. Come on." 

He took my arm. 

"But you haven't any clothes on, or any to 
speak of," I protested. 

"Oh, so I haven't. Well you just go out- 
side and ask anyone you see, where you'll find 
your car. Maybe it's been put on another 
section." 

Outside I found a conductor striding man- 
fully up and down. 

"I can't find my car," I told him. "It was 
here a while ago." 

"What was the number?" he demanded. 

"Number? I didn't suppose that it had a 
number. It was called Tipuella'." 

"How should I know the name?" He was 
annoyed. "I suppose it's the one that was put 
on another section. It's on track nineteen. 
You'd better hurry up, it may be leaving any 
moment now." 

I hastened to follow the direction of his 

[132] 



/ Discover the Pullman Car 

waving hand. Down steps. Up steps. Over 
tracks. There was a train before me. It was 
moving slowly. But fortunately in America 
they have little wheel cars on the platforms, 
so that if a passenger is so unlucky as to miss 
his train, he can pursue it. 

"I must catch that train!" I shouted, jump- 
ing on top of a pile of bags and boxes on the 
truck. "Hurry! Hurry!" 

The driver looked astonished; but my au- 
thoritative air evidently impressed him. He 
called for aid, and we were off down the path 
at breakneck speed. Would we catch the 
"Pipuella"? 

"On, on, for the Tipuella'!" I shouted. "We 
must make it!" How I wished that Theresa 
could have seen me. As if in response to my 
wish, I suddenly saw her head peering out 
from a window. 

"There we are! There we are!" I shouted. 

"Faster! Faster! That's the old boy. 
That's the old boy who knows how to ride the 
turf. Bravo! Bravo!" screamed Theresa. 

We were alongside. I took my courage in 

[133] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

my hands. I rose to my full height. I made 
a blind leap, and with unerring precision 
landed on my stomach on the platform. 

When I regained consciousness the suave 
negro was bending over me. 

"Say, I guess you caused enough trouble 
for one night," he hissed. "Come on, I'm go- 
ing to undress you and put you to bed myself 
this time." He held out a glass of water. "Did 
you ever take sleeping powders? Well, here's 
one." 

How thoughtful American servants are. I 
took the long cool draught with a sigh of re- 
lief. Through the gathering mists I seemed 
to see myself, perched high in the air, peering 
dazedly at a red haired Irishman who was fir- 
ing innumerable shots from a blazing auto- 
matic. So ended my memories of my first 
night in the "Pipuella." 



[134] 



Chapter Four 
I MAKE CHICAGO MY OWN 



CHAPTER FOUR 
I MAKE CHICAGO MY OWN 

"You'll get the breeze from Lake Michigan. 
It will be cool. Spring is perfectly lovely in 
Chicago!" 

So we were told. Naturally, we believed 
our informant; and as we came nearer and 
nearer the famed literary centre of the United 
States, I was constantly putting my head out 
of the car window to see if I could be the first 
to feel a flutter of air. Alas, I was forced to 
acknowledge that we had been duped again 
by that most unreliable emotion — American 
optimism. Chicago was hot! 

The first person we saw on the station plat- 
form was a man with a rifle on his shoulder. 
Could he be part of a guard of honor for us? 
At this moment up rushed Larry Lansing, tall 
and impressive, and Punchinello Bones, short 

[137] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

and jovial/ They are friends, though liter- 
ary critics. They spoke almost in one breath. 
"Welcome to the Queen City of the Near 
East {not middle west) . We present you with 
the cultural key of the city. It's the literary 
centre of the United States, you know." They 
bowed low. 

I, however, was still wondering about the 
man with the gun. 

"He's guarding the mails," Mr. Bones ex- 
plained. "The mail banditry is one of our 
most prosperous groups in *Chi.' They're 
regular guys, wear spats, use tooth brushes 
and everything. You'd enjoy their persiflage. 
The man with the rifle is just to show the ban- 
dits that they can't always expect to be ig- 
nored. In all confidence," he added, "they 
are actually glad of a little attention, proud 
of it; just as we, secretly, are proud of them. 
They demonstrate the bold spirit of the place, 
where laws are lightly looked upon, and the 
old spirit of track and trail persists along the 
rumbling rails of the 4oop.' " 

^ Such cordial, well meaning boys, not at all what one would 
have expected. Thr. Tb. 

[138] 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

Mr. Lansing waved a paper in my face. 

"Here's a list of your engagements while 
you're in Chicago," he announced. "You'll 
observe that I've given you time for every- 
thing but sleep, and I'm sure that you don't 
need that. Now, before ever you go to a 
hotel, let's raise the cry, *On to the stock- 
yards 1'" 

"But—" I protested. 

"Oh, it's all right," Bones assured me. 
"You'll find it an agreeable welcome to our 
beautiful city." 

Then it was that a strange thing happened. 
I stepped over to a news stand to ask my usual 
question as to whether or not they had a good 
supply of my books, when I suddenly realized 
that I had lost the rest of the party or that they 
had lost me, as the case may have been. What 
should I do? Where should I turn? I rushed 
to the street. There, riding on a violent white 
horse, clad in leathern breeches, a bright shirt, 
and a wide hat, I saw dashing up what was ob- 
viously a cowboy. Of course, I had heard of 

[139] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

cowboys.^ Ah, I thought immediately, he is 
on his way to the stockyards. If I follow him, 
I shall soon meet Lansing, Bones, and my own 
dear wife, who must be quite frantic by now. 

"Taxi!" I shouted. The words had been 
no more than uttered, when I found myself 
grabbed by two men, one with a black beard, 
one with a yellow, one tugging at my right 
arm, one at my left. 

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" I admonished 
them. "You will tear me apart, indeed you 
will. Whatever is the matter?" 

It seems that they were members of rival 
taxi fraternities, pledged to mortal enmity, and 
each determined to secure at least a part of 
me as fare. 

"Police!" I called, and though no actual 
policeman appeared, an eager crowd of citi- 
zens accomplished my rescue and I found 
myself seated in a cab. 

"Follow that man!" I commanded, point- 
ing to the picturesque figure of the cowboy 

*A cowboy is a person stationed along the streets of Chicago 
to apprehend animals who, having strayed from the stockyards, 
might do harm to the populace. Thr. Tb. 

[140] 




LIKE A MAN, I STOOD ROOTED TO THE SPOT 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

riding fearlessly down the bandit-infested 
streets. Safe inside, or comparatively safe at 
any rate inside, and with all the windows 
closed, I burst into tears. Alone — and in this 
city of undreamed wildness. Soon I remem- 
bered who and what I was, and composed my- 
self as was befitting the husband of Theresa 
Turbot and the famous British master of fic- 
tion and opinion. For as the days went by, 
and as questions on all manner of topics, from 
divorce to cooking, were asked me, I slowly 
had come to realize the great weight of my 
own mind, the respect in which I was held, 
and that my advice was not only asked but 
followed. There's the rub. What a respon- 
sibility. Under this treatment, I felt that I 
should become old before my time. Alas 1 

We had arrived. I looked about and saw no 
huge factory buildings as I had been led to 
expect. Instead, what seemed like a great 
arena alongside the lake. Never hesitating, 
I plunged through the gate, whereupon to 
right and left of me I seemed to see many 
people seated in rows. I kept my attention 

[143] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

riveted on the cowboy, who was still riding 
ahead of me, with no thought of possible dan- 
ger from animals. Too late! There was a 
roar and a rush. I seemed to hear cries of 
surprise and pain from the crowds. I turned. 
Bearing down on me, his magnificent horns 
all too magnificent, was a huge steer. His 
intention was evident. Like a man, I stood 
rooted to the spot, intending to prove myself 
by nature a toreador, and raised my two hands 
to grab those approaching horns. I could feel 
the hot breath of the angry beast, when, swish ! 
I felt myself drawn and dragged by some 
powerful force through the dust and away 
from the heroic task I had been about to face. 
Was this laughter or applause that greeted 
my fall? I have never known. No one has 
ever told me. As I wiped the dirt from my 
eyes and ears I looked up at — ^whom do you 
think? The cowboy, the boy himself. He 
had lassoed me. Yes, I, Timothy Tubby, 
had had a taste of the real old west; I had been 
lassoed. The cowboy, though, seemed angry. 
"Waddya think this is?" he said, curling 

[144] 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

his rope and his lip at the same instant. "A 
bull fight?" 

I told him that I was looking for the stock- 
yards. 

"Huh?" He turned away in disgust. 
"This ain't no stockyards, yuh dumbbell, this 
is ^The Greatest Wild West Show in the 
World.' Git out!" 

Much upset I found my way to the street, 
and was standing, looking helplessly up and 
down, when a kind lady approached me. I 
could see at once that she had recognized me 
from my pictures. 

"Welcome to the literary centre of Amer- 
ica," she said in sweet tones. "And what can 
the matter be with Mr. Tubby? He looks so 
tired and — er — just a trifle dusty. My name 
is Dowdy." 

"Thank you for your consideration, 
Madam," I said slowly. "Indeed, the matter 
at the moment seems to be that I am lost. It 
seems to me that I am always lost. America 
is so large. If you only would aid me to be- 
come found, I should be grateful forever. I 

[145] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

always autograph a book for people to whom 
I owe gratitude." 

"Fve always heard what a sweet person you 
were — now I know," said the lady bountiful, 
for she was bountiful as events proved. "Come 
with me. You shall have a tub put at your 
disposal, in fact, a shower, if you wish ; though 
I am sure that you prefer a tub, and there are 
several in my home. The use of imagination 
in arranging bathing facilities is one of the 
first duties of a good hostess. That has always 
been my ambition — to be a good hostess. Just 
that — no more." 

I looked at my hands ruefully. 

"Oh," she hastened to add, "not that you 
need one ; but I know how much a real Eng- 
lishman dislikes being separated from his tub. 
This is most fortunate, I shall entertain you 
while you are in Chicago at my own home. 
I always entertain celebrities at my home. In 
fact, it is the ^Home of Celebrities.' Undoubt- 
edly when we return we shall find at least 
two minor poets, and a minor artist or two, 
sitting on my hospitable hearth rug." 

[146] 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

Night found us all united at Mrs. Dowdy's. 
Theresa had seen the stockyards. She had 
been impressed, but glad that I wasn't there, 
for she didn't believe I could have stood it 
without flinching. I should like to have tried, 
anyway! All evening amid the gaiety, the 
spirit of slaughtered flesh seemed to brood 
over my soul. That night after it was quiet, 
by the light of a candle so as not to awaken 
Theresa, I wrote the first poem I had indited 
on American soil. I quote it here : 

THE STOCKYARD UNVISITED 

I did not see the stockyards in Chicago. 
Didnt you? What a pity! What a pity! 
No, I didn't see them, but I smelled them, felt them, 
And oh, I seemed to be that dripping flesh, 
Blood red, scarlet, quivering like a banner 
Boasting the mechanistic cruelty of this land, 
Torturing my poor soul. / did not see! 
And yet I know too well the awful sound 
Of countless squealing pigs, of dying porkers. 
Alas ! To think that this great stench of death 
That broods above the literary centre, Chicago, 
Must needs be smelled in order, oh my soul. 
That innocent men should down a good pork pie! 

I read it to them all as they came down 
for breakfast the next morning; but, though 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

impressed, they did not seem pleased. Mrs. 
Dowdy assured me it was because they recog- 
nized the stunning truth of it, that they were 
for the moment depressed. What a wonderful 
hostess she is, always saying the right thing 
at the right moment, and putting a fellow 
completely at his ease. Punchinello Bones was 
quite tactless about it. He assured me that 
the rhythm was faulty, and that if I should 
study my own countryman, Walter de la Mare, 
I might, in time, become a poet. He forgot, 
of course, that I make no pretensions in that 
direction. 

As we were all seated in the drawing room 
listening to a young man read his poetry, there 
was the sound as of the clanging of a brass 
bell. Each and every person in the room 
stood up and ran to the door. 

"It's Mrs. Gardner's signal!" shouted Mrs. 
Dowdy. "Come on down to the lake!" 

There we were, trooping toward the shore 
of Lake Michigan, where we saw a huge plat- 
form, about which stormed mobs of people 
clad in bathing suits. On the platform stood 

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/ Make Chicago My Own 

a vivid figure, in an orange bathing suit and 
a black hat with drooping feathers. She was 
whirling a stick above her head and rapidly 
beating the gong. 

"Pardon me/' I gasped in my breathless 
flight, "but what is she doing?" 

"Collecting a crowd for you, of course 1" 
shouted Mrs. Dowdy a trifle crossly over my 
shoulder. "Everyone comes just as soon as 
they hear the bell. Besides, she's probably 
sold more of your books than any other wo- 
man in the world. Isn't her hat lovely?" 

"Literary people shouldn't wear bathing 
suits," said a voice in my ear. It was a low 
voice, and I turned around to see a pair of 
deep eyes gazing at me from under a black 
cap. "This is all bunk; come on with me to 
the movies. Tubby. I'll show you a thing or 
two. Have you seen 'Caligari'?" 

I scarcely had a chance to nod at the gentle- 
man, for Mrs. Dowdy had seized me and was 
dragging me through the howling populace 
toward the platform. It was like a strange 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

dream, in which grotesque figures move. I 
felt myself swayed here and there. 

Suddenly I saw Larry Lansing stride across 
the platform. He cleared his throat and 
spoke lingeringly: 

"It is a privilege to welcome Mr. Tubby. 
Here we all are, all of artistic Chicago, com- 
ing to greet you at the sound of Luella Gard- 
ner's bell. Look at us. Are we not impres- 
sive? And how we do appreciate one another. 
Here we work strongly for the common good. 
There is no backbiting, no jealousy. We are 
out to serve the common good. Visitors to 
America should come directly to Chicago, 
where they would be led to understand the 
true heart of America. Of course, they could 
stop off a moment at New York on the way 
back. Mr. Tubby, we salute you, about to 
die or not!" 

I went forward and spoke a few words, 
which were completely drowned by cheers 
when I referred to Chicago as the home of 
the budding genius. I had meant to make it 
plural but, not being sure of the proper plural 

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/ Make Chicago My Own 

form, I used a paltry singular. How fortu- 
nate! For later I found that everyone there 
considered himself or herself the bud to whom 
I referred. It was one of those magnificent 
strokes of accidental diplomacy for which I 
am famous. 

Luella Gardner leaned forward and gave 
me one of her famous ravishing smiles. 

"Don't tire yourself, dear old topper, but 
mix! Mix and talk! It sells books." 

It was not so much a question of mixing as 
of being mixed. 

First came a sweet and smiling figure of a 
woman who introduced herself as the mother 
of American poetry. She was entirely sur- 
rounded by young ladies and young gentle- 
men, clothed in white bathing suits, with a 
sprig of myrtle worn on the brow. This cult 
at first frightened me; but when I found that 
each one had a little poem to read to me, I was 
naturally quite touched. True, I failed to 
understand most of the poems. One young 
man in particular puzzled me much. 

"This," and the mother patted him gently 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

on the myrtle sprig, "is the newest of the neWc 
He expresses himself in the etchiest of etched 
words. Do listen. You know, we are what 
makes Chicago the literary mecca!* 

" Tassion,' '' announced the young poet, 
then repeated his title: "Tassion'l" 

He went on: *' Great light suddenly fluid J' 

There was silence. I waited. We all 
waited. Then seeing that we all waited, 
the mother spoke. 

"That's all. Isn't it superb?" We all mur- 
mured. The ladies made approving sounds, 
being careful that they should not be distin- 
guishable, for fear that the young man's pub- 
lishers might hear and quote them, and there 
were few present in that assemblage whose 
opinions would not be valuable. 

At that moment there edged through the 
crowd a stalwart gentleman. On his arm was 
a stalwart lady. They brushed aside the 
mother and her cult and introduced a group 
of short-haired ladies and long-haired gentle- 
men who carried long yellow quills behind 
their ears. 

[152] 




I FELT BOTH EMBARRASSED AND AT SEA 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

"We believe in organization," the stalwart 
gentleman shouted confidentially. "It is by 
our earnest effort to bind together the book- 
lovers of the land that we have created Chi- 
cago, the literary centre. There has always 
been something magical in the fraternal order, 
its bonds are more binding than even those of 
matrimony, and when the seal of the order is 
a book, any book, many books, there exists an 
unbreakable unity which cannot but be recog- 
nized as a power in the world of letters. Now, 
you see, Mr. Tubby — " 

"Heah! Heah!" and a young man ran up. 
He was a most elegant young man. He 
brushed aside the stalwart gentleman with one 
splendid motion of an elegant cane, a motion 
which did not stop him from making occa- 
sional passes with a crayon at a sketching pad 
which he was carrying. He presented me 
with a large violet envelope. 

"An invitation," he announced, "to the real 
literary centre of America — Evanston! We 
boast at least two popular authors and we are 
the seat of that noble organization, the Drama 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

League; surely you have heard of the Drama 
League." 

I could but shake my head. 

"Well," and the young man cleared his 
throat, "it's an organization founded to do 
away with entertainment in the theatre and to 
encourage uplift. It has done wonders by 
introducing spelling games into vaudeville 
programs. YouVe no idea — " 

Whereupon, even before I had a chance to 
open the purple missive, a dark young man 
with eye glasses, whose name was Will, ner- 
vous hands, and quick speech, came rushing 
up, followed by several young ladies and 
gentlemen, each bearing a pile of books. Back 
of them I could see Luella Gardner looking 
a trifle worried. They arranged themselves 
in a row and began throwing the books at 
me. This was odd ; but it didn't matter much, 
as the volumes never hit me. 

"What's the matter?" I asked in surprise 
of the dark young man. 

"Why," he replied, "we're only demon- 
strating how it is that we booksellers have 

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/ Make Chicago My Own 

made Chicago America's literary centre. We 
literally throw the books at the public. Each 
one of us has his or her method. It doesn't 
much matter. I talk rapidly all the while I'm 
throwing them. Yet somehow I succeed in 
throwing a tremendous amount. Rose there, 
actually reads, while those three young men 
from three of our leading stores are masters of 
the art of eye soulf ulness. They throw mostly 
at flappers. Look at that young gentleman 
who dresses like an ape. He does that to ad- 
vertise his best seller. Clever of him, I 
call it! Consequently their glances at you are 
not quite so effective. Then, of course, there's 
Fanny. She just smiles. Her smile is quite 
different from Luella's and her taste in milli- 
nery is not nearly so good ; nevertheless, she's 
effective. Now I — " 

Bang! Whirr! Bang! Up rode an out- 
landish semi-naked figure on a mechanical 
hobby horse. It wore a smock and talked 
loudly and vehemently. 

"Why haven't you been down to visit the 
Mustard Plaster?" it shouted. "We're the 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

literary centre of the world — art, religion, 
politics, free love, and culture while you wait 
— who dares say any of the rest of these guys 
do anything? We don't do much and, by gol- 
ly wompus, we shock 'em anyway 1 Come on 
down to — " 

I was commencing to feel decidedly be- 
wildered, when I felt Larry Lansing's wel- 
come and strong hand on my arm. 

"We'll leave Theresa with Mrs. Dowdy," 
he whispered. "My car's waiting. I'll take 
you to lunch. You're scheduled for two lunch- 
eons today. Have to make 'em both, too, 
c'mon !" 

He half dragged me to the waiting motor. 
The crowd followed, waving farewells. The 
car jerked to a swift start, then stopped. 
There were more farewells. Again we 
started, this time with a terrific jounce. A 
wheel came off. We sank gracefully to one 
side. All rushed to aid Larry, except those 
who stayed behind to comfort me with talk of 
the books they were planning to write. Fin- 
ally, with renewed vigor and the restored 

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I Make Chicago My Own 

wheel, we were on our way. Larry explained 
to me his theory of artistic driving. "Never 
hit anything," he said, "but don't drive in a 
straight line; parabolas are more graceful, and 
grace is of prime importance in all things." 

It was an absorbing pastime to figure just 
how graceful Larry's curves could be without 
hitting each passing car. However, after sev- 
eral starts, stops, and whirls, we arrived at a 
dingy saloon, or what used to be a saloon, on 
a side street. 

Inside, banging their fists on a round 
wooden table in regular rhythm, sat a dozen 
men. They were in their shirt sleeves, with 
the exception of one gentleman who was clad 
in a saffron shooting jacket. 

"This is the bunch," Larry explained. 
"They are the ones who really control the lit- 
erary destinies of America." 

They made a place for me. I was imme- 
diately presented with a frankfurter on a plate 
and one of my own books. Looking in the 
book, I was surprised to see that it was written 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

all over with pictures of me and insulting re- 
marks about me. 

"Hold your own," someone commanded. 
"It's only a little custom. Some day these 
autographs will be valuable, even yours!" 

I wrote my chaste signature, somewhat 
stiffly; for I was puzzled by their chaff. As I 
wrote a little man with large eyes was whis- 
pering. I could not hear him. He stopped. 
There were roars of laughter. I looked up, 
puzzled. 

"It's only Keith's jokes," Larry explained. 
"We don't dare tell you, because we don't yet 
know your shock absorbing capacity. Now 
everyone stop, Ben wants to talk." 

A dark man with sparkling eyes began to 
speak. 

"This is real conversation," Larry assured 
me. 

I presume that he was right. In America 
conversation means one of two things. Either 
one man does all the talking or everyone talks 
at once. It is stimulating though confusing. 
I should always prefer to talk when everyone 

[i6o] 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

else was talking. After Ben had talked for 
twenty minutes Larry rang a bell. That was 
a signal for everyone to talk. I began to talk 
also, but every time I started everyone else 
stopped. This happened several times. When 
they observed that I really had nothing to say 
the flow of their voices commenced again. I 
had just mentioned the revered name of our 
late queen, when the gentleman with the black 
cap and the deep eyes whom I had met at the 
bathing party leaped upon the table. He 
stamped his feet. 

" Waddyamean, Queen Victoria ?" he shouted. 
"I ask you, waddyamean? Fll fight you!'* 

Now, let it not be said that Timothy Tubby 
ever refused to fight, certainly not when the 
name of our great queen was taken in vain. 
Adjusting my necktie, therefore, I rose. I let 
drive with my right; but due to a miscalcula- 
tion arising probably from the astigmatic con- 
dition of my eyes, I missed. I remembered the 
accounts of the Carpentier-Dempsey fight. I 
should emulate the gallant Georges. I braced 
myself to receive the inevitable blow. Just 

[i6i] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

then, I was lifted bodily from the floor and 
carried oflF. 

When I recovered my composure I found 
myself again in Larry's car driving madly to 
keep our other luncheon appointment at the 
Tissue Paper Club. There, I immediately 
recognized that I was in more respectable so- 
ciety; for the table had a cloth and the ser- 
vants wore clean aprons. On my right was a 
veteran novelist, on my left a veteran book- 
seller who leaned over to whisper in my ear, 
*This is the good solid opinion that backs Chi- 
cago as a literary centre." I nodded. This 
nod that one cultivates in America has since 
given me much trouble. It developed incipi- 
ent spinal difficulties. The veteran novelist 
rose. 

"We have with us today," he began, "two 
celebrities : Bobbie Best, the great American 
poet, known to every home in the United 
States, and Timothy Tubby, the famous Brit- 
ish novelist. First, let's hear from Bobbie. 
Who shall say that he is not a great poet, when 

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/ Make Chicago My Own 

his verses touch the heart of the American 
busy man?" 

Mr. Best arose, looked to right and left, 
then recited a poem : 

The sentiment that hurts my heart 

As I stand here today, 
Is thinking of my home and hearth, 

Dear Mother's far away; 
Dear Mother's far away, my men, 

But oh how near to me I 
Be cheerful for her sake, my men, 

I know that you'll agree! 

There were shouts of approval. The walls 
were assailed with "Bravo's." 

"He touches the rhythm of life itself," 
someone whispered. Then it was my turn. 
I arose. 

"The thing that has impressed me most 
since my arrival in Chicago," I began, "is the 
fact that it is the literary centre of the United 
States. {Cheers,) Why it is the centre, I do 
not yet know; but it is the centre. {More 
cheers.) Every young writer in America 
should move to Chicago. {Still more cheers,) 
Every writer in England should niove to Chi- 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

cago. {More and more cheers,) I am be- 
ginning to feel that Chicago, under the spell 
of the stockyards, is the literary hub of the 
world. {Deafening cheers^y* 

I sat down. With one motion, they lifted 
me to their shoulders. Down Michigan 
Avenue they bore me, while little girls strewed 
flowers in my path. 

"He has discovered Chicago," they sang, 
and bus drivers took up the burden of their 
song and it echoed across the waters of the 
lake — 

'^Shee-caw-go — a hub, a literary centre/' 

''You must dress for dinner now," Larry 
Lansing explained as I climbed down from 
the shoulders of my admirers. "You are at- 
tending a dance at Lake Forest this evening, 
after which you must catch the train for New 
York. Alas, that you cannot live and write 
here forever." 

Thus far I have not turned my attention to 
a discussion of American society. However, 
in passing, I should note that Chicago seems 
to be the social centre of America, as well as 

[164] 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

the literary centre. At least, so I was told. 
Arriving at a country club in Lake Forest, 
which is the summer colony of many members 
of Chicago's so called "gold coast," I found 
it difficult to make myself known. There was 
much noise, many lights, and an atmosphere 
of gaiety; yet somehow I felt a distinct chill. 
This was not, evidently, the place for litera- 
ture. For a time Theresa and I watched. 

The dancing was on a platform near the 
golf links. Most of the people wandered off 
across the greens. Was it because they did 
not enjoy dancing? No; because those who 
stayed seemed to enter into it with a superb 
and almost Latin abandon. This was diffi- 
cult to understand. Theresa finally discov- 
ered the hostess, and I was left alone with noth- 
ing at all to do but to twirl my monocle. I 
am afraid that I was a pathetic sight, for very 
soon I saw a young lady detach herself from 
a group of gay youngsters and mince across 
the floor toward me. She was dressed in 
bright green. She must have been very young 
indeed, for her skirts only reached to her 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

knees or a little above, I forget which. From 
her ears hung long pendants of jade. 

"Oh, Mr. Tubby!" she shouted. "I recog- 
nized you from your pictures. I write, too. 
Do you dance? I'll teach you if you don't. 
I write epigrams. Do you ever write epi- 
grams? And what do you think of Lake For- 
est — ^you know, it's the literary as well as the 
social centre of America. Well, come on old 
boy, here we go for a fox trot I" 

Now I had never attempted the modern 
steps. It is quite true, as Theresa avers, that 
I was only a moderately adequate dancer in 
the days of the old-fashioned waltz ; so when 
this alarming young creature flung herself 
into my arms I felt both embarrassed and at 
sea. She pressed her cheek against mine. 

"Just relax," she whispered, "then do any- 
thing you want to with your feet. You must. 
They are all watching. Love and dancing, 
when mixed, are the best of cpcktails. That's 
one of my epigrams. Isn't it a peach? Ata- 
boy — keep going — keep moving — now, dream 
into it old dear, let'er hum, they think we're 

[i66] 



/ Make Chicago My Own 

grand. A kiss is like a soap bubble, beautiful 
while it lasts. That's another of my epigrams. 
How long are you staying in Chicago, and 
isn't it a beautiful night." 

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It 
was a nice looking young man. He smiled. 
What was I to do? I kept on dancing. He 
frowned. The green young lady laughed 
and offered no advice. 

"May I cut in, sir?" he thundered. 

I stopped dancing to consider the meaning 
of his request. To my surprise he danced 
away with my partner. These things I do not 
understand. 

At this moment I saw Larry Lansing rush- 
ing across the lawn. 

"Your train!" he shouted. "You'll miss it." 

At that instant, far across the dancing floor, 
I observed a familiar figure, clad in flowered 
satin. At the same moment she observed me. 
I could see that she was about to speak to me ; 
but Larry grabbed me by one hand and The- 
resa by the other and started across the lawn. 

"Mr. Tubby, Misitv Tubby 1" came agi- 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

tated cries. We had just leaped into the car 
when the elaborately gowned woman threw 
herself upon the dashboard and clung there 
piteously. 

"Don't you know me? I'm Mrs. Camberry, 
president of the Pencilcrafters. I'm leaving 
for New York tonight and I almost missed 
my train. Will you see that I make it, and we 
can have another nice little talk. We can dis- 
cuss Chicago as a literary centre." 

They say that they helped her into the car. 
I do not know. I had sunk into a delightful 
state of coma, in which visions of a huge 
wheel composed of books and having for its 
centre the Chicago stockyards, revolved with 
flaming colors in the dark. 



[i68] 



Chapter Five 
OLD MR. TUTWHEELER OF BOSTON 



CHAPTER FIVE 
OLD MR. TUTWHEELER OF BOSTON 

We had arrived in Boston with a keen sense 
that relief was in sight. The old town of 
which we had heard and read so much, would 
prove a veritable haven after the brash trum- 
petings of the rest of America. It was, we 
had so often been told, a little bit of old Eng- 
land herself, with its quiet streets, its aris- 
tocratic populace, its literary leanings, and its 
historical associations. Longfellow, too, had 
lived in old Cambridge, and we could go to 
Craigie House with a sense of actually having 
completed a pilgrimage. That great name, 
at least, we revered. 

Just after we were settled in our rooms at 
the Touraine, I found a note inviting me to be 
the guest of honor that evening at the New 
England Poetry Society. I sank into my 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

chair with a groan. More poetry societies? 
However, Terry, dear old girl, came to the 
rescue. 

"I'll go,'' she said, "and you stay at home 
with a headache. I can read them one of your 
juvenilia, one of those sweet little verses you 
used to write at the age of ten or thereabouts. 
That will please them." ^ 

How much more than usual I appreciated 
the worth and the usefulness of a truly good 
helpmate. What better gift can be bestowed 
upon humble man? 

In the violet dusk I wandered out upon the 
Common, the famous old Common of which 
I had heard so much. In one corner, clus- 
tered about a bench, was a group of little 
boys; they wore large bone glasses and be- 
side them lay a pile of books. I stepped over 
quietly and carefully to look at the titles: 
Euripides, Henry James, Plato's "Republic," 
"Heaven's Holocaust" (by — imagine! T. 
Tubby). Well! Well! You can just picture 

* Unlike the New York meeting of the Poetry Society of 
America, it was not raided. It should have been. Thr. Tb. 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

my surprise and delight. These were the fa- 
mous wise youngsters of Boston of whom I 
had reach so much. Indeed, I had seen pic- 
tures of them in that semihumorous publica- 
tion "Life," and in the so called "funny" pa- 
pers. Here they were. I must speak to them! 

"Tell me, good young sirs," I spoke sol- 
emnly as I advanced toward them, "what do 
you think of the James brothers, William and 
Henry, and isn't it a nice evening?" 

"Waddya mean, you old goofer?" sang out 
one of them, and they turned about with one 
accord to glare at me. It was then I noticed 
that they had been playing with dice instead 
of enjoying quiet conversation as I had at first 
supposed. I was at a loss. I stood silently 
contemplating these curious beings. 

"Waddya lookin' at us like that for? We'll 
teach you to spy on us" — and a red headed 
young man reached quickly for a book. 
Others followed his example. What could I 
do with Greek books raining about my ears? 
I fled, with the urchins, for they surely were 
nothing better, yelling at my heels. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"Boys I Boys 1" A reproving voice sounded. 
The urchins ceased yelling and stopped run- 
ning. I turned to see who had arisen to res- 
cue me, and beheld a strange apparition. A 
slight little old man stood near, waving a cane 
feebly. From his top hat to his curiously 
pointed shoes, he seemed to have jumped from 
an old print. He was old, inexpressibly old; 
and yet his eyes sparkled vivaciously. 

"Is this what I pay you for?" he said in a 
husky, wavering voice, turning to the boys. 
"The next time that this happens I'll dis- 
charge you all. Dis-missed!'* The last word 
was thunderously pronounced. The group of 
youngsters broke and ran. The old gentleman 
turned to me. 

"I arrange to have them here," he ex* 
plained, "for appearances, you understand, 
keeping up traditions and all that. I suppose 
you might call me an antiquarian, sir, and 
there are those," he put one finger to the side 
of his nose and winked, "who might consider 
me antiquated " 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

"My name is Tubby," I commenced, 
"and " 

"Oh yes I" said the old gentleman, "I know. 
I came here to meet you and to fetch you. 
Come on." He pointed ahead of him with 
his stick. 

"But, my dear sir — ," I protested. 

"We are, I trust, Mr. Tubby, gentlemen; 
in fact, I presume, distinguished gentlemen. 
I prefer persuasion to force, but'' — and with 
that he whipped out a huge revolver of an- 
tique pattern, with silver mountings. "Kindly 
walk ahead of me." 

Naturally, I did as I was bid. He marched 
me to a street close by where a cab stood wait- 
ing. It was drawn by an old white horse, and 
the coachman, attired in dark green, had a 
beard which blew about him like mist in the 
evening air. 

"Kindly step in," said my friend with the 
revolver; and I obliged. We seated ourselves 
and he drew the shutters. The vehicle started 
jerkily. After a silence of a few moments, 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

during which time he kept his pistol across his 
knees, he turned to me. 

"Your wife will not worry," he explained. 
"I have left a satisfactory explanation at your 
hotel. Meanwhile you are, my dear sir, being 
abducted by none other than Mr. Tutwheeler, 
the Mr. Tutwheeler, of Boston, of the Cam- 
bridge literary group. Few mortal men have 
seen me. I am a survival of a grand epoch, 
anomalous, if you wish ; but a survival. My 
methods of prolonging life are no concern of 
yours. Here I am, a friend of Longfellow, 
Whittier, Lowell, Hawthorne, Emerson, 
Howells, the Jameses, the Adamses — a gentle- 
man of the old school, and I am stealing you 
away from the moderns. Indeed all my life 
and fortune are being dedicated to keeping the 
old atmosphere and destroying the new. 
That's why I hire the boys to look wise on the 
Common, that's why I've spent a fortune at- 
tempting to suppress Amy Lowell, that's why 
I am stealing you away. I shall not allow so 
great an Englishman to come in contact with 
the fearful spirit of modernity that is destroy- 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

ing this beautiful town and the literature of 
the land." 

"Presumably," I ventured, "you are well 
acquainted with monkey glands." 

He turned on me such a look of malevo- 
lence that I shrank back into the corner of 
the cab. 

"Sir," he bellowed, "monkey glands as ap- 
plied to the prolongation of human life are a 
modern contraption. I have no modern con- 
tacts. In the future, kindly have a care when 
addressing me. I admire your high station; 
but my temper is not so good as it was once 
and it was never very good. I remember well 
the day I became angry with dear Mr. Whit- 
tier. He resented my chiding him for his 
radical tendencies. Shocking I call it (revo- 
lutionary. Do you not consider such senti- 
ments dangerous when placed in the hands of 
the masses?" 

I murmured an apology and avoided the 
reference to Mr. Whittier. 

"Ah, here we are, at last, in Cambridge," 
said Mr. Tutwheeler. I soon found myself 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

walking through the gloom toward a colonial 
house, forbiddingly dark, flanked by rows of 
huge elm trees. As I heard heavy bolts flung 
back, and the door was opened stealthily, I 
suddenly felt like a character in a Sherlock 
Holmes story. I was, truly, frightened out 
of my wits. There was an air of funereal sol- 
emnity in the hallway. The tall, spare butler 
looked like a ghost, and his livery of black 
and white gave him an almost skeleton-like 
appearance. 

"Bones!" said Mr. Tutwheeler, and I shud- 
dered at the name, "show Mr. Tubby to the 
George Washington bedroom.'' He then 
turned to me. "You will find a wardrobe* 
awaiting you. I trust that the accommoda- 
tions are perfectly satisfactory." 

With a stiff bow, he whisked away into the 
dark. 

My room smelled of lavender. For one in- 
stant, I had a horrible thought. Did plumb- 
ing come under the head of Mr. Tutwheeler's 
"modern contraptions"? With a sigh of ex- 
treme relief I saw my hot bath, drawn doubt- 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

less by the faithful Bones, awaiting me. For 
a few moments I forgot my troubles as I sank 
into its deliciously scented warmth. 

My situation was serious. In the hands of 
a madman completely at his mercy, in a 
strange land and a new town. Occasionally 
even the spirit of adventure for which I have 
always been famous fails me, and I find my- 
self face to face with the most distressing of 
all human emotions — fearl 

The long rooms, opening in a grandiose 
vista, were lighted by occasional candles, as I 
came down to dinner. Mr. Tutwheeler, a 
neat, brisk figure, stood awaiting me. 

"Before going in to dinner, I must explain 
the test." He smiled and bowed. "One little 
thing I have been planning for years. You 
are to be the Bassanio. You have, perhaps, 
read *The Merchant of Venice'?" I nodded. 
He sighed. "In these days, one never knows. 
I am happy to see that Shakespeare is not 
entirely forgotten in his native land." 

He had led me by now to one end of a room 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

that was evidently a library, completely sur- 
rounded as it was by well filled cases. 

"Here is my five foot shelf !" and he pointed 
to a single row of books which lay along an 
exquisitely carved mahogany rack, hung 
against a huge tapestry depicting the landing 
of the Pilgrims. I started to take out a vol- 
ume. It was, if I remember correctly, 
"Brass," by Charles Norris. "Not yet," 
screamed Mr. Tutwheeler in alarm. "The 
time is not ripe. Let me explain. This is 
my dynamite test. I have been preparing it 
for years. Each season, I choose a new set 
of books — my pet abominations. To one of 
these books is attached an electrical appliance. 
When that particular volume is drawn forth 
a charge of dynamite is exploded, and with it 
goes this house and all that is in it. With such 
seriousness do I regard literature, that I am 
willing to meet death in this manner. I must 
die some time and anything is better than the 
knowledge that such books as these are being 
written. You are the man who must make 
the choice. Come, we shall go in to dinner 

[i8o] 




WITH GREEK BOOKS RAINING ABOUT MY EA&S 



Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

now. Before you make your decision I must 
send all of the servants away, except Bones, of 
course. Bones feels exactly as I do and is 
willing to do with me." 

Imagine my terror. Cold chills swept my 
backbone. Cold shivers shook my knees. 
Cold drops of perspiration rolled from my 
forehead. And as if to make the situation 
even more grotesque, the eerie little man 
smiled at me benignly. 

"Do you not consider it a great honor that 
you out of all living men have been chosen?" 

"But, my dear sir," I protested, "you do not 
seem to consider the fact that I do not want to 
diel" 

He looked at me with manifest surprise. 

"Are you not modern enough to think of 
the publicity?" He spoke the word hissingly 
and with scorn. "Think of the publicity. 
Mysterious old Cambridge house explodes. 
Famous British author disappears from Bos- 
ton. Were the twain connected? It will sell 
thousands of your books. It will make your 
wife a fortune." 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"A widow's legacy, sir, never compensates 
for her husband's death ; at least, in the mind 
of the husband. I beg of you, let me examine 
the fateful books. I may not have read some 
of them." 

"Oh, that doesn't matter," he assured me, 
pushing on impatiently toward the dining 
room, where Bones stood, an impressively 
ghoul-like figure, holding back black velvet 
curtains which revealed candle light reflected 
from much fine old silver. "Now, don't men- 
tion it again. Let's have a pleasant dinner. 
I've always heard that Englishmen were such 
good sports. Please don't mention it again. 
I have many things about which I wish to talk 
with you." 

We had scarcely taken our seats at a glis- 
tening table, when Mr. Tutwheeler started 
talking abruptly. 

"What do you think of Boston?" he de- 
manded. 

"You haven't given me a chance to see it," 
I protested. 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

"What do you think of Amy Lowell?" he 
pursued relentlessly. 

*^An able poet," I began. 

"Stop!" He raised his hand in a gesture 
of dismay. "I have spent millions in an at- 
tempt to counteract her influence on young 
American writers. If she had not been a 
woman, if she had not been a Lowell" — he 
paused for a moment, overcome by great emo- 
tion. "Do you realize that she has disrupted 
the good old methods of Longfellow, that she 
has trampled upon tradition, that she is a 
veritable Medusa turning to stone all beauties 
of rhythm and all harmonies of form? The 
fact that she is of the Massachusetts tradi- 
tion itself, that she is the inheritor of ages of 
conservatism — ah, it is too much to bear. 
Katharine Lee Bates, too; doesn't it seem to 
you as though a woman of her experience, a 
teacher in Wellesley College itself, whose own 
work has fine conception and spirit, should 
adopt a policy of disdain for the young up- 
starts? But no — she countenances them, she 
helps them, she invites them to speak in her 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

courses. Hideous, I call it. The Brown sis- 
ters are not so incorrigible, though I must 
say that I have occasionally been shocked by 
Miss Alice's short stories. Dear Miss Abbie 
Farwell Brown — her poetry does appeal to 
me. As for George Edward Woodberry, he's 
what I call thoroughly modern. What can I 
do but die, as I sit faced by all these facts, 
mindful that I alone remain to fight for the 
ideals of Emerson and of Longfellow!" 

During this incoherent tirade and between 
mouthfuls of duck, I was looking about me 
for a means of escape. The windows were 
shrouded with black velvet. I had consid- 
ered for a moment making a dash for one of 
them and leaping out no matter what the con- 
sequences; but as Bones drew back one of the 
curtains to peer out, I saw heavy bars. There 
seemed little hope. Perhaps if I could cheer 
up the old gentleman, I should be able to 
wheedle him into letting me go. 

"I quite agree with you about the Younger 
Generation," I began in an attempt to humor 
him. "Their minds run too much in sex chan- 

[i86] 



Old Mr. Tutw heeler of Boston 

nels, and as for these young ladies called *flap- 
pers,' I—" 

"Flappers!" His thin old voice quavered 
high in an agonized shriek. "Bones, bring me 
some brandy, quickly, or I shall faint, or die, 
or something of the sort. Flappers! Sex! 
Oh, my dear Mr. Tubby! . . . 

"Don't be sorry; it's a foolish virtue. I'll 
tell you what I think of them, that is, just as 
soon as I've had a bit of brandy 1" 

Bones poured a liberal portion of brandy 
down his throat. 

"You see, my good Tubby," Mr. Tutwheeler 
began slowly, "they have no taste, no taste 
whatsoever. Let them have love affairs, who 
cares, we've all had 'em in our time; but why 
should they want everyone else to see them 
making love? What's more foolish than a 
loving couple? Who wants to read about sex 
and dish water? Part of life? Yes! But the 
part we like to forget! Kisses? Very good, 
very good indeed, sir, in a darkened parlor; 
but in the sunlight? They don't belong, sir, 
they don't belong. Nothing is sacred to these 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

young people. They make novels of their 
own troubles. I'm told that it is even possible 
to recognize their own sweethearts and wives 
in the pages of their fiction. Is this breeding, 
is this taste? Men ask me, what is this that 
you are fighting? I reply, ^Decadence! Dis- 
integration of the mental forces that bind our 
government and forge our culture.' Alas! 
There are times when I become a veritable 
Tory in my sentiments, when I wish that we 
had never broken away from dear Mother 
England. The British nation is inherently 
well bred. You do not find these strange phe- 
nomena in England, do you?" 

I hesitated a moment, feeling, in a sense, 
that my life depended on the reply. Yet 
somehow the Tubby love of truth would not 
let me lie. 

"Of course, my honored sir," I began ten- 
tatively, "we are much better off than you 
are in this country, that goes without say- 

ing— " 
"I suspected as much, I suspected as much," 

[i88] 



Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

grumbled the old gentleman, shaking his head 
and rubbing his hands. 

"But," I added, and his eyes glared appre- 
hensively and, I feared, menacingly, "we, too, 
have our troubles. The Younger Generation 
is not without its wantonness, both in life and 
in print." 

"That isn't the question, that isn't the ques- 
tion," shouted the irate little gentleman, and 
as he became more angry he seemed to shrivel 
up and to take on the aspect of some other 
world demon. "Wantonness isn't anything 
new. I don't expect young people to be an- 
gels. I wasn't and I'm glad of it. The ques- 
tion is. Tubby, do they talk about themselves?^' 

"Oh Lord yes!" I blurted out. 

For a moment I thought that the old man 
had expired. But he sipped from his glass 
of port, and looked at me with a tragic ex- 
pression in his eyes. 

"Alas! Tubby, I fear it was all the doing 
of those atrocious creatures, Shaw and Wells. 
Once bad manners have been introduced, they 
spread. Gentility is no longer genteel, and 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

impoliteness is coming to be the only sign of so- 
called aristocracy. It is time, I fear, for the 
test. Come, sir, prepare your mind to con- 
sider the tremendous problem before you." 

I arose shakily. Once again I looked long- 
ingly at the barred windows ; but they seemed 
to oflfer no solution. Bones stood, silent and 
mummified, near the door. Firearms, no 
doubt, were at hand, should I attempt to make 
my escape. 

"I have invited a few guests to witness the 
ceremony," Mr. Tutwheeler announced, and 
by now I had come to realize that his eyes 
were shining with a glee so malicious as to be 
absolutely devilish. "Show them in. Bones." 

They came, elaborately gowned and fault- 
lessly tailored. He had evidently invited 
them from far and near to enjoy Death's feast. 
Bones, in tones like the hollow rumbling of an 
Indian gong, announced the entrance of each 
guest. 

"Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald"— and a slim 
youth with light hair rushed nervously and 
unsteadily in. 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

"Miss Dorothy Speare" — there was a vision 
of white spangles and waving fan, and the 
sound of shrill song. 

"Mr. Heywood Broun" — the room seemed 
suddenly darkened by a huge shadow; 

"Miss Willa Cathej" — straight and martial 
in her manner this lady entered. 

"Mr. John V. A. Weaver" — carrying five 
autographed copies of his latest book and a 
worried expression. 

"Mr. Sherwood Anderson" — dark and 
dreamy eyed, he wandered toward us. 

"Mr. Floyd Dell" — going directly toward 
the hangings, he hid himself in their black 
folds. 

"Mr. Sinclair Lewis" — fiery, alert, eager, 
leaping like a faun, he started a rapid con- 
versation immediately. 

"Mr. Ben Hecht" — carrying a huge dic- 
tionary of phalic symbols. 

"Mr. John Dos Passos" — with an easel, a 
paint brush, and a German helmet. 

"Mr. Robert Benchley" — the perfect diplo- 
mat, he smiled in all directions. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"Mr. Gilbert Seldes" — looking as though 
he would like at any moment to put on boxing 
gloves. 

^^Mr. Stephen Benet"— he joined Mr. Dell 
behind the curtains. 

"Mr. John Farrar" — revolving in a circle 
he spoke to everyone in the room at least 
once. 

"Mr. Waldo Frank" — walking as if at his 
own funeral. 

"Mr. Maxwell Bodenheim" — triumphantly 
late, aching for someone to annoy him. 

"Mr. Thomas Beer" — shyly and apparently 
having come only after the greatest persuasion. 

"Mr. Herbert Gorman" — hiding as far as 
possible behind Mr. Beer. 

"Mr. Burton Rascoe" — ten volumes of 
French poetry tucked under his arms. 

"Mr. Donald Ogden Stewart" — attempting 
to look serious, while his clown-like antics be- 
trayed him. 

"Mr. Robert Nathan" — ^with a cynic's pa- 
tient glance at the few ladies in the room. 

So they came, more and more. Here, cer- 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

tainly, was my chance to escape; but no, Mr. 
Tutwheeler kept me at his side. 

"Do you realize," I started to explain to 
Mr. Broun, whom I remembered so well from 
early days in New York; but Mr. Tutwheeler 
interrupted. 

"Mr. Broun," questioned the old man, "do 
you think that Mr. Tubby will choose one of 
your books?" 

Mr. Broun smiled in an embarrassed way, 
and murmured some polite denial. At once, 
each member of the group became self-con- 
scious in expressions of assurance that his at 
least would not be the book chosen. It seemed 
to matter very little to them that I had not 
read most of their output. 

"The hour has come," announced Mr. Tut- 
wheeler solemnly. 

The gay company formed in a circle about 
the shelf. 

"To the author of the book chosen, I ofiFer a 
prize of twenty thousand dollars." 

There was a shriek of delighted expectancy. 

"I am so interested in the work of the 

[193] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Younger Generation — in the new writers/" 
and he turned his back on them all and winked 
at me. Once more I cleared my throat to 
scream. It seemed a hateful thing to do; but, 
after all, it was not as though the loss of these 
authors would mean much to the world. Of 
course, I could not help but remember my 
own unwritten masterpieces that might have 
spread joy and wisdom to far lands. Still, 
there was only one chante of setting off the 
dynamite. On the other hanrd, there was the 
twenty thousand dollar reward. Before me, 
tlien, was a nice problem in psychology. To 
what sort of book would the wily Tutwheeler 
have been likely to attach the trigger of the in- 
fernal machine? 

Here were the titles. I gasped. It was 
hopeless. There were a dozen books, as fol- 
lows : 

To the Last Man Zane Grey 

Slabs of the Sunburnt West Carl Sandburg 

Brass Charles G. Norris 

Rahab Waldo Frank 

The Beautiful and Damned F. Scott Fitzgerald 

Jurgen James Branch Cabell 

Three Soldiers John Dos Passos 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

Legends Amy Lowell 

The Mirrors of Washington Anonymous 

A Parody Outline of Hw/ory ... Donald Ogden Stewart 

The American Language H. L. Mencken 

The Head of the House of Coombe, 

Frances Hodgson Burnett 

What was I to do? Few of these books I 
had read. Mrs. Burnett, I knew, and Zane 
Grey, who is popular in England ; but of the 
others, with the exception of Amy Lowell, I 
had scarcely even heard. She, I knew, was 
his pet abomination. Could it be that ^'Leg- 
ends" was the fatal book? Then, with a sud- 
den flash of intuition, I decided. Mrs. Bur- 
nett's work was innocuous enough. Surely she 
would not blow twenty-odd souls into eter- 
nity. True, the old rascal might be playing 
a trick on us. Perhaps he wanted to destroy 
us all, and to end his own miserable life. I 
was trembling from tip to toe. The room was 
horribly still. I reached . . . 

"TOOTl TOOTYI TOOTl TOOT I" 

Mr. Tutwheeler jumped. We all jumped 
at the sound of brazen trumpets outside. Sud- 
denly Bones burst screaming into the room. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"She is here! She is herel Flee for your 
life, master, she is here!" 

"Who is here?" demanded my mad host, 
still with a semblance of dignity. 

*'Amy Lowelir gasped terrified Bones, and 
fainted. 

Mr. Tutwheeler's face became white, so 
white that it looked like a wrinkled death 
mask of his former self. He made a hurried 
movement toward the shelf ; but with greater 
presence of mind than I usually display, I 
seized him by both elbows and held him there 
struggling. The other guests expressed their 
astonishment in various ways, some by faint- 
ing, some by running in circles, some by bab- 
bling coherently, others by babbling incoher- 
ently. Then, completely surrounded by a 
guard of stalwart young men heavily armed. 
Miss Lowell entered. She smiled, nodded to 
right and left, and came swiftly down the 
room. For an instant she looked at Mr. Tut- 
wheeler. He shriveled before her gaze. 
Then she uttered one word, delicately but 
firmly. 

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Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 

'Tossiir said Miss Lowell. 

He sank as though he had been shot. 

"Tie them both securely and put them in a 
corner," Miss Lowell commanded. Then 
turning to me she said, "Wasn't it fortunate 
that your wife telephoned me of your disap- 
pearance? He signed his name to the note 
in the hotel. I had heard of his mysterious 
house. I used to know him once on a time. 
So I came here directly. What was happen- 

ing?" 

I explained in trembling tones. 

"So," said Miss Lowell. We called on 
some member of the party who was an elec- 
trician to cut the wires which we found at the 
back of the case. There was a rush to exam- 
ine the books. 

Every one of those volumes except one was 
attached to the infernal mechanism — and that 
one — "Legends" by Amy Lowell. In another 
moment we would all of us have been seeking 
information in higher altitudes. 

"Why did he do that?" someone asked. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"Did he secretly admire Miss Lowell's work, 
or was he just a rotten sportsman?" 

No one will ever know ; for late that night 
after we had all left, there was a terrific deto- 
nation which shook all Cambridge. Old Mr. 
Tutwheeler of Boston had gone elsewhere to 
join the other members of the Cambridge 
school of literature. May his works live as 
long as theirs. 



[198] 



Chapter Six 
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY 



CHAPTER SIX 

THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY 

I attended many universities and schools 
while in the United States, and I really see 
very little difference among them. They are 
all finishing schools. Even Yale and Har- 
vard, the most spectacular schools in Amer- 
ica, do little more than teach manners. Har- 
vard teaches the sons of successful men to ap- 
pear successful, Yale teaches atiy boy to be 
successful in spite of his bad manners, while 
Princeton teaches its students that to pur- 
chase clothes at the right tailors is the sum- 
mit of all wisdom — and it gives them a list 
of the tailors. However, the most charming 
thing about America, is the college youth. 
Insouciant, is the word. Worshipful, fresh, 
keen, always indulging in some jolly little 
prank. I shall never forget the delightful 

[201] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

few days I spent at Dartmouth, a somewhat 
rural college for farmers' sons, hidden away 
in the wilds of the White and Green Moun- 
tains. It was in Winter. My first few hours 
were torture, until I noticed that most of the 
boys and all of the professors wore ear-muffs,^ 
little furry pads that snap over the ears and 
are most necessary in zero weather. 

After that, I was quite happy, except for 
the little incident of the skiing party. I had 
used these instruments once, many years ago 
in the Swiss Mountains ; but, as Theresa later 
reminded me, that was when I was somewhat 
less stout. Nevertheless, as I heard the dear 
boys talking about their amusements, I wanted 
so to prove to them that an Englishman is ac- 
tually the good sport that he is said to be in all 
the books, that I slightly hinted that I could 
ski. "Oh," those ruddy-cheeked youngsters 
immediately chorused. "We'll get up a party 
for you, and we'll have the moving picture 
men come around. What a lark that will be!" 

* Why is it that men can never stand so much pain as women ? 
You certainly would never see ear muffs being worn in a girls' 
college. 

[202] 




BIYI KICiC HIM out! LUTEM TO TUB BULL-DOOl 



The American University 

— and the still small voice in my soul, so care- 
fully cultivated by Mr. Vernay, echoed, 
"What good publicity!" 

It was a bright clear morning. We all wore 
sporting clothes, although mine did not fit too 
well. Now I had supposed that we would 
all go out upon one of those gentle white 
slopes that I had observed along the road- 
side; but instead I found myself suddenly con- 
fronted by a huge iron structure, miles high, 
at which I looked in wonder and amazement. 

"What is this?" I asked. Theresa had al- 
ready surmised, and was weeping softly. 
"You'll break your neck or — something!" she 
whispered. 

It was, it seemed, the slide on which I was 
to ski. My heart began to go pit-a-pat. But, 
oh! I could not forget that the honor of my 
country was involved. The boys stood around 
expectantly. As I climbed the dizzy heights, 
my soul misgave me. I looked down. Some- 
one kindly fastened on the instruments, which 
at the moment made me think of the Spanish 

[205] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Inquisition. I smiled. Yes, I smiled. That 
makes me especially proud of myself, the fact 
that I smiled.^ 

Theresa, I'm ashamed to say, controlled 
herself very badly. She very nearly fainted, 
and it was only because of the kindly encir- 
cling arms of the Dartmouth librarian (I be- 
lieve it was he) that she survived.^ 

I looked down again. I could see the mov- 
ing picture operators, stamping their feet 
from the cold, and I knew that I must not 
keep them waiting. "Bravo! Bravo! Tubby! 
Tubby!" I heard those nice young fellows 
shouting. "One — two — three" — I counted. 
Alas, somehow I did not start. "Now!" I 
said to myself, "One — two" — and, I'm proud 
'of it, if I do have to tell it myself, and I do, 
don't I? For who else could know. I ac- 
tually started that perilous descent on the sec- 
ond, instead of the third count. What hap- 
pened then, I do not know. Down, down, I 

' I should like to remind the reader that there are smiles and 
smiles. Thr. Tb. 

* Who wouldn't faint, if they saw their husband not only about 
to be killed but, as usual, to make a fool of himself? Thr. Tb, 

[206] 



The American University 

went, swifter and more swift. I heard a roar 
of horror in my ears. I was suddenly and 
somehow high in the air. Then blessed 
blankness. 

When I came to, I was in a warm room. 
The face of a kind doctor-man was bending 
over me. "Nothing wrong with you, old 
man," he said, "and that was a fine perform- 
ance, all but the end." 

Now that all goes to show that doctors are 
not to be trusted. True, there was nothing 
wrong with me but a sprained ankle, and the 
performance, as later shown in the movies, 
may have been a success ; but it was labelled 
by that impudent young Mr. Sherwood, the 
moving picture critic (if you can dignify any- 
one who will go to the moving pictures by 
that name) as "the most humorous incident 
that has ever been shown in a news reel." How- 
ever, it was all worth while, because of the 
way the dear boys treated me. They sent me 
bunches of roses and lilies, they came and read 
to me, from "Jurgen," "The Green Mountain 
Boys," and "Dancers in the Dark," and when 

[207] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

I spoke to them on crutches, there were cries 
of "Good old boy," as I entered, and even one 
voice singing, "Here the conquering hero 
comes." Those are the moments that stand 
out above all others in my American trip. 
There is nothing like being appreciated by the 
youth of so great and essentially youthful a 
country. 

I have already written of Boston, yet I 
failed to say at that time, that it is really little 
more than a suburb of Cambridge. After all, 
Boston is Harvard, or vice versa, as the case 
may be. Well, needless to say, I felt more at 
home in the academic atmosphere of Cam- 
bridge than at any other point in my trip. 
This was partly because the English language 
is spoken at Harvard, while one finds various 
American dialects at most of the other univer- 
sities. I understand that Mr. H. L. Mencken, 
the great critic of slang, has made every at- 
tempt to persuade the Harvard faculty to give 
over the teaching of English, and substitute 
that of American; and, though he has been 
successful in this at Princeton, as can be seen 

[208] 



The American University 

from the writings of Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, 
and at Smith College, as is witnessed by Miss 
Dorothy Speare, he cannot yet dominate that 
stubborn old aristocracy, based on the funda- 
mentals of English culture, which is the soul 
of Harvard. Harvard atmosphere I like best 
of any in America ; but it is to the Yale under- 
graduates that my heart goes out. More of 
that, anon.* 

Imagine what a full day was mine after 
hearing one of Professor Bliss Perry's lec- 
tures, attending a soiree at Professor Copey's, 
and then going to my first real college dance. 
The last is what gave me the thrill ! There I 
learned what few men know : the truth about 
the American flapper. I found that the west- 
ern variety, the kind that I had encountered 
in Chicago, was a silly imitation of the deep 
resonant whole-souled young lady that is the 
typical American young lady of good Boston 
breeding. 

I shall not attempt to describe Professor 

*On this point ray husband and I disagree. The Yale under- 
graduate talks too much and too loudly. Harvard has culture. 
Thr. Tb. 

[209] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Perry's lecture. It was on some phase of 
poetry, I forget which, and it is a subject con- 
cerning which I, myself, being a poet, know 
little, and he seemed to know a great dejl. 

Unfortunately I was late in arriving at Pro- 
fessor Copey's. I was ushered into a large 
room. There were dim lights. I could see 
many youths sitting about on divans, on win- 
dow seats, on cushions, on the floor. This is 
the most famous salon at Harvard; in fact, the 
only one of its kind, I suspect, in the world. 
They were deep in admiration of the profes- 
sor, who was reading to them in a voice which, 
I understand, is famous for its mellifluousness. 
No one noticed me. This seemed strange, so 
I coughed. Still no one noticed me, though 
the Professor shook his head slightly. What 
was he reading? I couldn't quite make out. 
Was it funny? There was an occasional up- 
roarious laugh ; but, on the whole, the expres- 
sions in those young eyes were of such soul- 
ful admiration, that I judged him to be read- 
ing from Keats, or at least Alfred Noyes. I 
coughed again. This time the Professor 

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The American University 

stopped reading, but he did not raise his head. 

"Go . over . in . the . corner . and . sit . down 
. until . I'm . through . reading," said he. 

Naturally, I felt like a schoolgirl who has 
been caught in her first kiss. There was a 
slight, appreciative yet respectful snigger 
from the boys. However, rather than intrude, 
and let an Englishman be known as one who 
insists on his rights to the discomfort of others, 
I went quietly to the corner, and sat down to 
listen. 

Was he reading Keats? I listened again; 
but could make nothing of it. I whispered 
to the boy next me. 

"Do you mind telling me what it is Profes- 
sor Copey is reading?" I asked. 

"Behind the Beyond," replied the young 
man in awed tones. 

"What?" I gasped. 

"Oh, really don't you know? It's one of our 
favorites here. The famous burlesque by the 
humorous Stephen Leacock." 

"Humorous indeed!" said I, and with that 
in what I believe to be righteous indignation, 

[211] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

I arose and slipped away. Think of reading 
to a group of earnest youngsters humorous se- 
lections when, obviously, they had all come 
together to have their minds improved. 
Surely an Oxford or Cambridge Professor 
would never do such a thing as that! 

Outside, Ted Dinehart was waiting for me 
in his car. His mother is a famous novelist. 
She writes books; but is also interested in 
hunting. She has even shot such big game as, 
let me see, tarpons, I think, and her son is not 
unlike her. He is interested in books ; but he 
also is an authority on dancing and did much 
to introduce me to the subject of the flapper. 

"Do you dance?" he asked. 

"Well — " I commenced. 

"Of course you do! Now, don't treat 'em 
all alike — the girls, I mean. You've got to 
use subtlety, just as though you were writing 
a book, that is, if you write the subtle kind. 
You see, they're all different — girls, I mean. 
Now the college graduates can't dance, most 
of them, and the other kind can't talk, most 
of them — so you've got to choose, and, in most 

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The American University 

cases, compromise. Personally, I prefer them 
when theyVe been out of college a year or 
two, though, of course theyVe getting a little 
old then for me; but they'd be all right for 
you. You see, by that time, theyVe learned to 
dance again, and they haven't quite forgotten 
how to talk. Later, of course, what happens 
to them, depends entirely on what sort of a 
guy they marry. If they have a golf-playing 
husband, they take up aesthetics. If they 
marry an intellectual guy, they take up golf. 
Aren't women perverse?" 

How wonderful is the wisdom of the young! 
I could but agree with him, though, of course, 
I added hastily that I was married myself, to 
a paragon of all the virtues, who never played 
golf, and spoke only when she was spoken to.® 

The dance was a brilliant affair. Ted 
drew me into a corner and asked me to look 
over the girls. I studied them carefully, then 
picked one in a dull orange dress, who did not 
wear earrings, and whose hair was not bobbed. 

"Ah," said Ted, "I thought you'd pick her. 

*I wonder. Thr. Tb, 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

She's not only beautiful ; but she's intelligent. 
She's a dancer, in a show playing in town 
now. Sally Stern is her name. I'll introduce 
you." 

"A dancer!" I gasped. "Surely it were bet- 
ter if I should talk with one of your Boston 
Society Ladies." 

Ted looked at me scornfully. "Certainly 
notl" he said, and went to get the young lady, 
looking over his shoulder as he went, he flung 
back at me — "Not if you want an interesting 
evening!" 

Miss Stern smiled at me, cordially, as Ted 
flew oflf to dance with someone whose hair was 
bobbed. "So you're Mr. Tubby. Dear Dr. 
Traprock has told me about you so often. He 
says that you have that South Sea Island touch 
in your books that is seldom met with these 
days. So very tropical." 

Naturally, I was flattered. We sat down 
on a divan, where we were quite plainly in 
sight of the chaperones.^ 

"I suppose you are trying to decide what 

•I wonder. Tkr, Tb. 

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The American University 

the American girl is like," began Miss Stern, 
"and I suppose that you've read a great deal 
about them. Well, I'd like you to go back to 
England with the impression that they're 
really not so bad as they are painted. It's the 
American man that is stupid. Now, I ask 
you, look at them. Aren't they a prize lot of 
dumbbells?" 

"Dumbbells?" I queried, and looked. 
They seemed to me pleasant-faced young men 
who danced exceedingly well. 

"Dumbbells means that they don't know 
enough to go home when it rains," she vouch- 
safed. "Yes, I can see that you think they 
dance well. They do. They have to. It's 
the only way they have to entertain a young 
lady, except petting, and when they aren't 
dancing, they're making themselves believe 
that every girl they meet likes to be kissed, or 
something like that. Well, it's absurd. I'm 
all for forming a league to suppress the Amer- 
ican flapper, and, by that, I mean the Male 
flapper. What can a girl do? She can't talk 
to a stick about painting, or music, or even the 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

best kind of dancing. Naturally, she devel- 
ops a 4ine'; she gives them what they want 
because she's afraid she'll get to be twenty- 
five without having a good husband who fits 
into her latest scheme of psychoanalysis or 
eugenics. So she talks to them about prohibi- 
tion, and college athletics, and the weather. 
Oh ! That old topic, the weather, is meat for 
her! Take it from me, Mr. Tubby, it's the 
American boy that's a flapper, not the Ameri- 
can girl. Wait a few years, and you'll see 
the women running this country. The men 
will have to take an intellectual back seat, and 
they'll be there before they know what has 
happened to them." 

This young lady had quite taken me off my 
feet. I scarcely knew how to reply. Fortu- 
nately, Ted appeared then, with a young per- 
son clad in flaming scarlet. 

"Miss Bobby Leeds," and we were off danc- 
ing before I knew it. What a determined per- 
son. My fox trot had improved a little ; but I 
fear that I found myself stepping occasionally 
on her dainty scarlet-clad toe. 

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The American University 

"Nice evening," she murmured. 

I agreed. 

"Nice party," she murmured. 

I agreed. 

"Did you go to the Joneses last night?" 

"No," I replied. 

"Too bad. Nice party," she murmured. 

We danced, with some difficulty. 

"Your name Bubby?" she murmured. 

"No, Tubby," I corrected. 

"Sorry. Ted says you write stories?" 

"Yes," I agreed. 

"Must be fun to write stories," she mur- 
mured. 

"It is," I agreed. 

"Isn't Jack Dempsey wonderful?" she mur- 
mured. 

I agreed. 

— "And Rodolph Valentino?" she mur- 
mured. 

I agreed. 

"I adore books," she murmured. 

I made the proper grunting sound. 

"Don't you?" she murmured, 

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Timothy Tubby's Journal 

"Oh yes!" I agreed. 

"Naturally," she murmured. "How stupid 
of me. You write them, don't you?" 

At this point someone took her away from 
me, and I sank into a chair. What an amaz- 
ing thing is an American girl! I looked up, 
after I had mopped my heated brow, and saw, 
oh! what do you think? Crossing the hall, 
stately in a purple velvet evening gown was a 
woman. Ted came to my side now and I 
turned to him with a little expression of hor- 
ror! 

"Who is that woman?" I demanded. 

"Mrs. Camberry. She's—" 

"Oh yes ! I know, I know, Ted ; she's Presi- 
dent of the Pencilcraf ters, and here she comes, 
and you've got to get me out of this hall." 

"But I can't, dear Mr. Tubby, she just spoke 
to me about you, says that you're a great ad- 
mirer of hers, and that she must see you. It 
really wouldn't be — " 

But I did not wait to hear the rest. I saw 
a window near by. I leaped out, not knowing 
that we were two floors from the ground. A 

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The American University 

policeman tried to arrest me for attempted 
suicide ; but I assured him that I was only run- 
ning away from a woman who talked so much 
that it would have been sure suicide to stay 
longer. 

"Sure and she isn't Irish, is she?" he asked. 

"No," I replied. 

"I didn't think so," he said, and helped me 
to a cab. Alas! I had sprained the other 
ankle; but it was far better than another en- 
counter with that all-embracing woman. 

My invitation to deliver a lecture at Yale 
was warmly phrased. It was from Professor 
William Lyon Phelps, who had long appre- 
ciated my work, and it told me that I could 
speak before a group of anxious undergrad- 
uates on any subject that I chose. He didn't 
say what they were anxious about. He sug- 
gested, further, that I come at the time of the 
Yale-Harvard game, so that I might benefit 
by that great spectacle. Naturally, I wrote an 
immediate acceptance. 

At the station, Professors Berdan and 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Phelps and the University band, also, several 
cheer leaders, and a parade of undergrad- 
uates met me. Or, at least, the Professors, 
met me; for I rather imagine that the return- 
ing foot-ball team had a little to do with the 
other turn-out, though, when Professor Ber- 
dan told them who I was, having heard of my 
exploits at Dartmouth, they took me on their 
shoulders and carried me through the streets, 
shouting. It was another great moment. 

We were rushed directly to Lampson Ly- 
ceum, where I was to lecture. 

"I didn't hear from you what subject you 
wished to speak on; but knowing that you 
were an authority on women, I thought that, 
^My Impressions of Women in American Lit- 
erature,' would be a good one to announce, 
and you may speak on anything you choose, of 



course." 



"Oh! That's as good as another I" I said in 
an off-hand manner, attempting to appear con- 
fident, though my knees were shaking, and 
Theresa pressed my hand knowingly, under- 

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The American University 

standing my feelings. How wonderful it is to 
have an intuitive wif eJ 

The lecture room was crowded as I entered. 
In fact, people were standing in the doors. 
I had heard that Yale was the intellectual 
center of America, Now I was sure. 

"Let's all stand to do the great Englishman 
honor," said Professor Phelps. All stood. I 
started to stand ; but remembered in time, so 
that I scarcely left my chair. It surely was 
not more than half an inch.^ 

Then, after Professor Phelps' brief but 
glowing introduction, I spoke. And how easy 
it was. 

"I don't know much about American Liter- 
ature," I commenced ; "but as to the other half 
of the program — I do feel that I know some- 
thing about your women!" 

They laughed, and after that it was plain 
sailing. Only, due to my near-sighted condi- 
tion, I did not realize that there were many 

'I wonder. Thr. Tb. 

' He stood, and sat down again ; but it only showed his innate 
shyness and proved indirectly his modesty. Thr. Tb. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

faculty wives, and New Haven ladies pres- 
ent. This was unfortunate, considering; but, 
at any rate, how the undergraduates did ap- 
plaud, and Professor Phelps led them in a 
cheer, when we had finished. Such an intel- 
lectual cheer, too — all in Greek — though 
jazzed a bit, I should say were I an American, 
which, praise be, I am not, though it is a won- 
derful country, nevertheless, and Yale is the 
absolute intellectual center, just as Chicago is 
the literary center. What could better prove 
it, than the wonderful thing that followed? 
Just as the boys finished cheering, a roar went 
up from them. As with one voice they 
shouted, "Will you autograph a book for me?" 
"Do you mind?" asked Billy confidentially, 
for I had already learned to call him that, and 
he handed me a fountain pen. Then they 
climbed over one another's heads, fought, 
pushed, climbed the platform, and clambered, 
blushing, about me. Think of it, those de- 
lightful chaps, who had read my books, and 
wanted autographs. Billy counted them, and 
will you believe it, there were seven hundred, 

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The American University 

(Just think of what that amounts to in roy- 
alties, too, whispers the still small voice.) 
Now it has always been my custom to put a 
little mark in each book that I autograph and 
I did not wish to depart from my custom, so, 
the shades of night had actually fallen when I 
had finished, and we rushed to an osteopath, so 
that my arm would not be permanently dis- 
abled. The papers carried the following 
headlines the next day: 

FAMOUS BRITISH AUTHOR DIS- 
ABLED BY YOUNG YALE AUTO- 
GRAPH-HUNTERS. 

Isn't that wonderful? And I put the fol- 
lowing in every single volume, whether the 
pages were cut or not. In fact, I didn't have 
time to look at many, and I expect the ones 
I didn't look at were well thumbed. 



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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

The next day was the game. Naturally, I 
have never seen so many people gathered to- 
gether. It was a little bit too large to be sport- 
ing, in the true British sense of the word. 
However, they do carry out everything on the 
grand scale in America. Unfortunately I did 
not see the game itself. But that is the least 
part of it. Then, too, Yale lost, and with my 
new-found affection for the Yale boys, I could 
not have borne this too terrible tragedy. It all 
happened because of a misunderstanding. I 
did not know that the Yale color was blue, 
and, again due to my near-sighted condition, 
I did not see when the Harvard team came 
on the field, that it was indeed the Harvard 
team. Theresa and I had somehow been 
placed on the edge of the section where all 
the boys are put who do not take young ladies 
to the game, and on what is known as the 
'^Harvard Side." As the Harvard men came 
on the field, I rose and shouted lustily, "Bravo I 
Bravo for Yale!" 

"Hey! Kick him out! Listen to the bull- 
dog! What do you mean, you little guy!" 

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The American University 

and more such epithets were hurled at 
me. Then the astonishing event took place. 
I was picked up, and tossed by hundreds of 
hands in the air. Theresa screamed; but 
her screams were drowned by roars of 
what sounded to me like mirth. Down 
the sides of the great sea of human beings 
that formed ^The Bowl" I was rolled 
until, gasping for breath, I found myself on 
the grass at the side of the gridiron, itself. 
Then, as is my custom, I fainted. When I 
awoke, I found myself in a place called the 
Elizabethan Club, which is composed of un- 
dergraduates and faculty members who enjoy 
looking at first editions, and are fond of tea. 
Bending over me was a black face. It was the 
custodian of this club. 

"Won't you smoke one of our clay pipes?" 
he asked. "They brought you here in an am- 
bulance. I think our tobacco would revive 
you." 

"But I never smoke a clay pipe," I objected. 

"Ah then," said this gentleman, who is 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

versed in the lore of centuries, "you will have 
all the sensations of a Sir Walter Raleigh." 

You see, even the servants at Yale are intel- 
lectual. Still I preferred a walk to a pipe. 

"Are you sure that you can find your way 
back?" asked the dark gentleman politely. 

"Oh, yes!" I said, and started out for a nice 
little stroll. Presently, people began coming 
back from the game, and the streets were so 
full of cars, that I became confused. I 
thought that I had better return to the club. 
I had no idea what it looked like ; but I found 
myself standing in front of a structure which 
was obviously a club of sorts and I thought 
that I could at least ask there where to go. 
It was a box-like structure, set in the middle 
of a lawn, covered with vines, and with a 
gate in front. 

Before I go any further, I must explain 
that there are Senior Societies at Yale. These 
societies are difficult to explain because they 
are so secret that it's impossible to find out 
anything about them. I asked several times; 
but every time I said anything in this vein, 

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The American University 

half the people left the room, and the other 
half looked exceedingly pained. At any rate, 
there are secret societies. 

I approached the door. I fumbled for a 
bell. Suddenly it opened, in a most ghostly 
fashion. I entered. Was I insane? Before 
me, I seemed to see a ghost of Shakespeare, 
holding out a huge punch-bowl in which I 
could see lemonade. I gasped. 

"Who are you?" I screeched. 

As I said this, people seemed to spring at 
me from all sides. A black cloth was flung 
over my head. And, for the second time that 
day, I was lifted in the air, and flung outside. 
What strange treatment from civilized 
people? 

When I found the Elizabethan Club again, 
I asked the servant what this meant. 

"Oh, Mr. Tubby, do not worry," he said. 
"We simply do not speak of these things at 
Yale." 

Weill Well! In spite of all this, I still feel 
that Yale is the intellectual center of America. 
They actually read at Yale. Why, only think, 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

seven hundred of them have read, or at least 
own, at least one book of mine. What better 
proof could I offer? I have sent Professor 
Phelps a copy of "Heaven's Holocaust," and I 
am sure that he will review it for the N. Y. 
Times. Of course, I'm a little worried about 
putting that book in the hands of undergrad- 
uates. It's a trifle frank in spots. And those 
dear Yale boys are so naive. 



[228] 



Chapter Seven 
AMERICAN WOMANHOOD 



CHAPTER SEVEN 
AMERICAN WOMANHOOD 

Why should I write this article at all? Why- 
should I be called upon to criticize in any 
way that delicate product of fortitude and 
breeding — the American woman? Alas, they 
demand it of me. I can see their pretty lips 
(a little too deeply carmined at times, I must 
admit) forming the fatal words, "Oh, Mr. 
Tubby! Do tell us what you think of us! As 
a great English novelist, noted for his under- 
standing of women, your aid should be inval- 
uable. How do we compare with the women 
of Merrie England?" Cruel — how cruel; for 
she will not like what I think of her. Shall I 
be honest? How could I be anything else, 
being an Englishman, being a Tubby? How 
shall I ever dare the American lecture plat- 
form again if I say what I think? It is, in- 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

deed, a problem not only in ethics but in eco- 
nomics. How full life is of problems. But 
this particular problem has been on my mind 
for days. I arose early this morning, as early 
as eleven o'clock. I went out on the street. I 
had determined to question the first woman I 
saw. It proved to be a stout handsome lady 
hurrying somewhere. She looked well bred 
— not at all like an American. I went up to 
her, quite boldly for me. 

"I beg your pardon," I commenced, "but 
Fm Timothy Tubby, and I have to write an 
article on American womanhood. Now if you 
were an American woman — " 

"But I am!'' she interrupted. 

"Well, you don't look like one," I assured 
her, at which remark she did not seem prop- 
erly pleased. "At any rate, would you rather 
have me flatter you, or would you prefer to 
have me tell the truth? Would you be angry 
if I criticized you?" 

She looked at me, and there was true Brit- 
ish hauteur in her glance. 

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American Womanhood 

"Why should I care at all what you think?" 
she said, and swept on. 

After all, I thought, she might have been 
partly right. Why should she care? Why 
should anyone care? Is not the truth always 
best? With her courageous remark ringing in 
my ears, I sit down this beautiful morning 
and write. May I have the courage to speak 
plainly, and may the American woman heed 
what warnings I shall give. I can feel, or at 
least almost feel, the prophetic spirit moving 
within me. 

First of all, we are face to face with a mat- 
ter of definitions. What is an American 
woman? What is a woman? Ah poetry, ah 
passion — Need you ask? Need I define? 
But, what is an American? — that is a dififerent 
matter. As one walks along the streets one 
observes skulls, ears, color, and noses — par- 
ticularly noses. What is the American char- 
acteristic? In London we have the eyeglass 
and the cane — but in New York? Negro and 
Jew, Scandinavian and redskin — these, these 
all, are Americans. To be precise, why don't 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

we make it definite? Shall we take for our 
premise, for our understanding of the word 
"American," some such statement as this : for 
our purposes, let us consider a native Ameri- 
can "anyone not too dark in color who came to 
the shores of the United States, before the age 
of two years, via Liverpool — or, for that mat- 
ter, was born in the United States." 

First of all, there is the matter of physical 
appearance, or dress would perhaps be a bet- 
ter word for it. What is the American psy- 
chology of dress? I spent exactly six weeks in 
exhaustive researches to determine some com- 
mon denominator of taste in clothes among 
American women. Only one thing I discov- 
ered. They do not dress to please men. The 
American man has no subtlety. He prefers 
the costume of the bathing beach and the ball- 
room to the tea gown. No, the American 
woman desires to make her fellow females 
envious, or to please visiting Englishmen. 
This having been established, I feel that a 
recounting of some of my experiences in 
modistical research should prove valuable. 

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American Womanhood 

Theresa had become acquainted, through 
her efforts to secure an evening gown that 
would make her look thinner than she actually 
was, with a Fifth Avenue modiste, Madame 
Susette. Arrangements were made with the 
Madame to allow me to sit behind a screen in 
her establishment while some of her customers 
looked at gowns. A hole was made in an in- 
conspicuous portion of the screen, behind 
which I carefully placed my eye. First came 
a tall thin woman, whose figure was, I as- 
sure you, quite without contour. 

Madame Susette: Ah, Mrs. Culberson, 
we have just the thing for you this morning. 
Annette, show Mrs. Culberson, the creme 
georgette, 

Mrs. Culberson : What a pretty sounding 
name. So Parisian. Will it give me a figure? 

Madame Susette {with magnificently 
knowing eyes): Only wait until you see itl 

At this point Annette, the model, appeared, 
wearing a gown of soft veils and little else. It 
was the sort of gown that only Annette could 
have worn, and Annette's figure was as beau- 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

tif ul as that of any healthy young English girl. 
I suspect that she was born in Devon in spite 
of her French name. 

Madame SusetTE {breathing a little sigh) : 
Ah ! Is that not perfect? 

Mrs. Culberson : How lovely. Oh, it's a 
dream! But really, Madame, / could never 
wear it. It would not suit me at all. 

Madame Susette: Au contraire, chere 
Madame Culberson; with only a trifle 
changed here — a snap there — a tuck here, it 
would just suit. Shall we have a fitting? 

They disappeared. A few moments later 
Madame Susette appeared. "You should be 
ashamed of yourself," I chided, "putting that 
absurd gown on that impossible woman." 

"My dear Mr. Tubby," Madame remon- 
strated, "what a poor salesman you would 
make. Don't you know that a woman never 
buys a gown that fits her own figure — but the 
one that fits the figure she wishes she had? 
Watch this if you don't believe me!" 

Another customer had entered. She was 
chubby, yes more than chubby, actually fat, 

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American Womanhood 

quite typical of the young married American 
woman. 

Madame Susette : Ah, Mrs. Gardella, we 
have just the thing for you this morning. An- 
nette, show Mrs. Gardella the sheath exotique. 

Mrs. Gardella: How interesting! And 
will it give me long lines? 

Madame Susette: Only wait until you 
see it! 

Whereupon Annette, the model, again ap- 
peared, this time dressed in an evening gown 
of orchid velvet, with scarlet inserts and a 
sheath in the skirt that displayed gold and 
black stockings at some length. 

Mrs. Gardella : Ooooh ! Sweeeeet ! But 
really, Madame Susette, I couldn't — how 
could I? It never would do, particularly the 
sheath part; you know my — 

Madame Susette: Hush, dear lady. A 
snip here, a trifle let out there. Nothing like 
bright colors to bring out your particular 
style, and it takes others to see us as we are, 
really. You can't possibly appreciate how 
trim your figure is. Trimness is not a ques- 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

tion of much or little avoirdupois; but of pro- 
portion. Now that particular dress requires a 
person of proportion. How admirably it will 
become you. Do slip it on. 

They vanished, all three of them, and I sat 
uncomfortably behind the screen contemplat- 
ing problems of psychology in dress. What 
was my duty? Should I allow Mrs. Gardella 
to purchase the atrocious gown? Was it not 
my duty to humanity to tell her the truth? 
Theresa has often told me that it is wiser to 
attack a woman's soul than to be frank about 
her figure; and, somehow, this seemed an es- 
pecial case. I could not bear to picture the 
scene that would occur when Mrs. Gardella 
wore the exotique for the first time, in the 
presence of Mr. Gardella. Her arrival de- 
cided me. Her face was red from the exertion 
of a quick change of dress; her arms bulged 
— but it was the black and gold stockings that 
urged me to action. I rushed from behind the 
screen. 

"Don't buy that dress 1" I shouted excitedly. 

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American Womanhood 

She gave a little scream. Madame Susette 
eyed me in horror. 

"Who is this man? What is he doing here? 
What do you mean?" gasped Mrs. Gardella. 

"I am an authority on women gathering 
data," I attempted to soothe her. "Now, if I 
were you, I'd select another dress; that one 
does not become you. It's designed for a thin 
woman." 

"I am insulted," said Mrs. Gardella coldly. 
"I do not yet see why you think that I should 
not wear this dress." 

"Because" — I had determined to be blunt — 
"you are fat." 

"Madame Susette, have this dress altered 
and sent to me at once. As for this boob" — 
she flung a look of utter scorn at me — "per- 
haps you will engage him as your chief de- 
signer!" 

She swept (or perhaps waddled is the 
word) away, and I made my escape amid a 
whir of invectives from the enraged Madame 
Susette. 

Yes, American women have no sense about 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

any specific problem. They have strong emo- 
tions of a certain variety, and they clothe 
themselves both by and in their emotions. Yet 
on the whole, their appearance is more sacred 
to American women than to their English sis- 
ters. If an Englishwoman hasn't the money to 
purchase a new spring hat, she wears last 
year's, or one from the year before that, or— I 
am loathe to admit it — her grandmother's hat; 
but an American? The most piteous stories 
are told of the sacrifices young girls have made 
so that they may app^ear with proper head 
dress on Fifth Avenue on Easter Sunday, 
when all good Americans make their pilgrim- 
age to New York City to have the seal of met- 
ropolitan approval placed on their spring 
wardrobes. There was the famous case of 
Angela Neatham, now notorious, but at that 
time living in poverty in a hall bedroom. She 
hadn't a cent. Easter was approaching. She 
had no spring hat. What should she do? She 
took stock of her meagre possessions. Noth- 
ing to pawn. Then she had a bright idea. 
She had read of the great sums people make 

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*'0H yes!" chirped the young ladies, "how shall we find a 

HANDSOME HUSBAND?" 



American Womanhood 

writing for the magazines. She was very 
lovely to look upon. She wrote six poems of 
passion and immediately sold them to the edi- 
tor of "Vanity Fair," and she asked his as- 
sistant, a bright young man with taste, to go 
with her while she picked out the hat. Now 
she is one of the most famous poets in Amer- 
ica. How beautiful is the determination to 
be clothed. 

Of course one cannot speak of the Ameri- 
can woman without taking into consideration, 
for a second, the American man. It is his at- 
titude toward her which has rendered her so 
generally cruel and calculating. Due prob- 
ably to the original influence of Martha 
Washington, a sort of woman worship has 
sprung up in America. More than one man 
has devoted his life to the "glorification of the 
American girl." I have attended these wor- 
shipful services. Their high priest is a man 
named Ziegf eld, and he knows his business, or 
profession, as you prefer it, remarkably well. 
However, it is really a shame that these young 
women of the U.S.A. should be allowed to 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

take themselves so seriously. After all, in 
England they would be women, nothing more. 
But please don't for one teeny weeny instant 
think that I'm criticizing. I wouldn't for any 
sum of money. I have ample proof that this 
attitude in America is only a surface one. I 
am convinced that in spite of the strong rev- 
erence Americans have for the godlike quali- 
ties of the female, there is a sneaking hope 
that, after all, she is only a human being, the 
temptress of us all. However, I may be 
wrong. It is so much harder to understand 
the American man than the woman. Why, I 
feel that I could almost step into the place of 
some Chicago matron of forty-five and never 
know the difference, so great is my sympathy 
with them; but an American man — I find 
them curiously unresponsive. 

Now let me again reiterate the assertion 
that I am not criticizing at any point in this 
article. I wouldn't offend anyone, not for the 
world, I do assure you. I wouldn't harm a 
chicken or a goose, Theresa will tell you that. 
I am so very gentle; but I don't care for the 

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American Womanhood 

attitude of the American woman in business 
and politics. Why is it that the moment she 
steps into an office, unless she is a stenog- 
rapher, she must put off all signs of feminin- 
ity? She cultivates the square jaw and the 
long neck. She talks in hoarse and harsh 
tones. She attempts to intimidate rather than 
to cajole. Perhaps this is fortunate; for if 
the method of Mr. Ziegfeld were carried into 
the business world, who knows what might 
happen to the stock market? 

Having interviewed the female business 
heads of two large concerns, I feel myself par- 
ticularly well able to speak concerning their 
personalities. Not for one instant during my 
talks with them did I feel thoroughly the man. 
They made every effort to disregard my mas- 
culinity. They snapped. They called innu- 
merable assistants and displayed extraordi- 
nary evidences of efficiency. The question I 
went to ask was : "Are men or women more 
efficient in business?" From the first woman, 
a young lady of some twenty-eight years, I re- 
ceived the following reply: "I never have a 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

woman near me in the office. They are essen- 
tially insubordinate." From the second exec- 
utive lady, of some fifty summers, I received a 
similar (but oh how dissimilar) reply: "I 
never have a man near me in the office. They 
are essentially insubordinate." There was 
only one conclusion to be drawn from this : a 
woman respects age in a woman, while a man 
respects youth. 

The American woman is primarily cold. I 
have tried time and time again to make love to 
them without the slightest encouragement. 
Strange, isn't it; I have no such troubles at 
home. Theresa explains it by the fact that in 
the United States the ladies thought of me as 
an intellect, admired my literary powers, and 
did not visualize me as a person at all. This 
may partly explain their curious behavior; 
but not wholly. I have seen beautiful women 
talk for an entire evening with handsome men 
without so much as holding hands. What do 
they talk about? Surely in England such 
things do not happen. Nor is it, apparently, 
the custom for the man to do the seeking in 

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American Womanhood 

America. The initiative must come from the 
woman. I tried several experiments along 
these lines. I had heard that Broadway, in 
New York City, was the place where one 
might reasonably expect to find young ladies 
who would not be unwilling to enjoy a little 
supper party. So, having made quite certain 
that Theresa was willing that I should try 
this experiment, I put on my new spats, a 
bright yellow tie, took my walking stick in 
hand, and sallied forth one evening. Broad- 
way was brilliant with the after theatre crowd. 
I began to feel quite young again, even jovial 
and a little buoyant. I had long ago realized 
that I knew America well enough to take 
care of myself and to get rid of Mr. Vernay, 
who in the early days had been so kind and so 
protective as a press agent. I strolled up the 
great street of pleasure, missing somewhat the 
sombre grandiosity of Piccadilly but, never- 
theless, feeling as I have said, jovial. I made 
my facial expression now expansive, now 
lonely. Yet I seemed to see no unattended 
young ladies. I stopped on a street corner 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

and made every effort to seem the unprotected 
bachelor. To no avail. One dark eyed dam- 
sel passed me. I essayed a wink. She turned 
her head shyly and quickly away. For two 
hours I tramped the streets. Not once did 
anyone give me what we English call the 
"glad eye." It was discouraging. For a mo- 
ment I stood, despondent, at Columbus Circle, 
near the great Central Park. Could it be that 
my youthful charm had completely departed? 
Was I actually forbidding in appearance, or 
was this indeed the cold country I had heard 
it was? Then I noticed a young lady stand- 
ing not so far away. She was comely. I 
smiled. She did not frown; though she did 
not smile. I approached. She did not flee. 
I began to feel expansive once more. 

"A jolly evening," I ventured. 

"Yes?" she questioned. 

"How would a little supper strike you?" I 
dared. 

She did not assent; but neither did she re- 
prove me. I hailed a cab. We entered it. I 
reached tentatively for her hand. She leaned 

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American Womanhood 

forward and gave an address to the taxicab 
driver. He looked perturbed. She assured 
him. 

"I suppose you know where we^re going, 
don't you?" she demanded of me in tones that 
had in them no note of cordiality. I, puzzled, 
shook my head. 

"To the police station!'' she vouchsafed. 

"But—" I protested. 

"Oh that's all right. I s'pose you English 
guys think that you can come over here and 
accost innocent young girls on the street and 
get away with it. See here!" She displayed 
the shining shield of a detective. 

By this time I had become thoroughly 
alarmed. Vernay afterward informed me 
that if she really was a woman detective, and 
he doubts it, I should have gone through with 
it. He saw the headlines somewhat as fol- 
lows: "NOTED AUTHOR ARRESTED WHILE 
MAKING SOCIOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS." I, 
however, naturally thought only of Theresa, 
and of the possibility of being obliged to 
spend another night in jail. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

"Oh no — you can't — I'm Timothy Tubby," 
I began. 

"Oh!" Her face brightened. "The guy 
that knows all about women. Gee, what a fake 
you must be. Picking me up that way. Why 
you old fool! . . . Well, suppose you slip me a 
ten spot and we'll call it quits." 

I finally presented her with the money, paid 
the driver, and rushed back a sadder and wiser 
man to the protective soothings of dear 
Theresa. Presumably things are not done this 
way in the United States! 

Marriage in America is apparently consid- 
ered somewhat as a plague by most young men. 
Why this is, I cannot understand, since di- 
vorce is so easy. One young' lady informed 
me that the first thing a young man asks these 
days on being introduced to a girl is, "Do you 
want to get married?" If she replies, "I 
wouldn't for the world," everything progresses 
splendidly; but if she should by any unhappy 
chance say, "Yes, the thing I want most in life 
is a home," he will be seen running across a 
ballroom and jumping out the window. In 

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American Womanhood 

fact, there are daily suicides of those who 
would rather give up life than bachelorhood. 

It is a relief to turn from the stresses and 
strains involved in any discussion of sex mat- 
ters, to the quiet security of the American 
woman's club. I know of nothing else like 
these estimable organizations in the world. 
They are the acme of learning, the epitome 
of culture. They appreciated me in a way 
in which I have never before been appre- 
ciated. Not only had they read about my 
books, but they had read them, and they now 
follow my every word in the papers, molding 
not only their culture but their lives after the 
models I suggest, models which I assure you 
are formed only after the most intense confer- 
ences with Theresa, who in this case desires 
to remain persona non grata of the occasion. 

Perhaps I can best give you an idea of these 
clubs, by telling you the story of one of the 
most delightful afternoons of my long and 
successful career. There was a thunder 
storm, I remember. I don't know why I re- 
member; but I do. So much electricity in the 

[251] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

atmosphere, I suppose. Perhaps that ac- 
counted for the great success of the afternoon. 
I have always felt the magnetism of my per- 
sonality grow under the influence of elec- 
tricity. I used to have a violet ray treatment 
before every lecture until I developed my 
present well known sang froid. 

The club was, I believe, in a small town in 
upstate New York. But, in spite of the small- 
ness of the town, four hundred women and 
several men came to hear my talk on "How to 
be a Woman and yet be Independent." As I 
looked over my audience, I knew at once that 
it would be a fine talk. They were of all ages. 
Mostly, however, they were young girls, 
brought there, I fancied, by their school 
teachers to hear words of wisdom. 

The lecture progressed splendidly. Little 
ripples of laughter greeted me as I made my 
usual mot: "I left my wife at home so that I 
could say anything I chose about women." 
Then I began to discuss books about women. I 
could see gleams of intelligence shooting out 
at me from their eyes. It is most encouraging 

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American Womanhood 

when you see intelligence in a woman's eyes, 
and you do often in America, you really do. 
It's extraordinary, considering the obtuseness 
of the men. I have utterly failed in talking 
to the men in the United States ; we don't seem 
to have anything in common. Isn't it strange? 
You can't talk to men about women. Appar- 
ently they aren't interested. 

After I had finished, with my usual flourish, 
"There are no women in the world just like 
the women of America, even if I, a citizen of 
the United Kingdom, do say it," the applause 
would have gratified any heart. There was 
the usual flood of questions. I noticed a little 
group of people waiting in the back of the 
room, and I wondered what was in store for 
me. After everyone else had left, they ap- 
proached in a wave. At the head was a tall 
spinster-like lady with cold eyes but a pleas- 
ant smile. 

"I am Miss Wilstich," she announced. 
'The Miss Wilstich of Miss Wilstich's School 
for Proper Young Ladies." 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

I nodded and smiled, just as though I really 
knew all about it. 

"And these," she waved her carefully 
gloved hand proudly, "are some of my young 
ladies." 

They tittered becomingly as I let my glance 
fall along the line. They were pretty, oh very 
pretty indeed, of that variety known as flapper. 
Each one of them seemed to have more soulful 
eyes than the last I had observed, so I looked 
back quickly to the safe haven of Miss Wil- 
stich's primness. 

"Yes," I said becomingly. "And what can 
I do for them? I should be happy to oblige 
them in any way they may require." 

"They require little," she announced. 
"Here is a chance for you, sir, to do a great 
service to humanity. There is one course 
which we cannot give at my school, and which 
young ladies of these days sadly need : that in 
^How to Get a Husband, or the Principles of 
Courtship.' Alas, we have been successful in 
many things at our little paradise among 
schools; but, unfortunately, too large a per- 

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American Womanhood 

centage of our graduates remain spinsters. 
While this condition, I assure you, is an emi- 
nently tolerable one, in fact sometimes I be- 
lieve it to be most desirable, yet for the future 
of the race and the principles of Theodore 
Roosevelt, whom we revere and respect, we 
cannot allow this condition to continue. We 
had heard that in such matters you were infal- 
lible. We wonder if you would not, in a very 
few moments, give us some of your ideas on 
the subject. We promise the most eager at- 
tention." 

"Oh yes! Yes!" chirped the young ladies 
in chorus. "How shall we find a handsome 
and charming husband?" 

This was what I most liked. I urged them 
to be seated, visualizing myself as an actual 
benefactor of American progress. 

"First of all," I began, "you must disabuse 
yourselves of the idea of handsome. Hand- 
some is as handsome does, and you must first 
try your arts and wiles on the less promising 
young men, in order to learn how to ensnare 
the others. Never wear curl papers in public. 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

That is an infallible rule. A curl paper is one 
of the most distressing sights a man can see. 
Remember that, too, after you are married. 
Do not be too free with your caresses. Do not 
let your little brother put an alarm clock un- 
der the sofa. If a caller wants to stay late, let 
him stay, even though you have to stick a long 
pin into your arm to keep yourself awake. As 
long as he is talking and you are listening, he 
will be happy; but do not yawn in his face 
when he goes to kiss you good night, and never 
slap him, no matter how objectionable he may 
be. Remember that the number of your 
suitors always speaks for popularity, and the 
stupid fly may attract the brilliant moth to the 
honey. 

"Let a man think that you could be a good 
cook if you wanted to; but don't let him get 
the idea that you're too domestic. Never make 
him do anything unless he first suggests it, and 
above all things don't weep on his shoulder. 
Laugh at his jokes, but don't expect him to 
laugh at yours. Don't try to get him to pro- 
pose to you. If he realizes that you're doing 

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American Womanhood 

so, he never will. Always choose to ride on a 
bus rather than in a taxicab. A bus top is 
more public but taxi fare eats up the week's 
wages. Don't use so much powder that it 
leaves a mark on his shoulder. Never inti- 
mate that a man's a poor dancer. Be inter- 
ested but not too interested in his work, and 
above all, never be jealous." 

^^But Mr. Tubby — " a young lady inter- 
rupted. 

Miss Wilstich gave her a frightful glance. 

^^Yes, my dear, wha_t is it?" I said in sooth- 
ing tones. 

"I've done all those things and — " 

"I hope not!" said Miss W. firmly. 

"But I have," went on the young lady 
dauntlessly, "and I haven't a husband yet, and 
I'm going on eighteen." 

"Now don't be discouraged," I comforted. 
"I've known marriages to be successful as late 
as fifty-two, and I certainly wouldn't be down- 
hearted under forty-five." 

Miss Wilstich glowed. 

"Now young ladies, I've given you a wealth 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

of advice, and I must away to the tea which 
is being given for me. Farewell, and don't 
any of you neglect to send me invitations to 
your weddings. I shall not be able to come, 
but I'll send you each a copy of my book 
'Love After Marriage.' " 

^'Good-by, girls," said Miss Wilstich. "I'm 
going to go along with Mr. Tubby. You 
see," she added to me, ''we are both going 
to the same tea, and there was a little private 
matter I wanted to ask your advice about." 

A motor was waiting outside. Somehow I 
became a trifle nervous in the spinster lady's 
presence. She leaned forward confidentially. 

"I'm forty-two," she began, "and I want to 
know what you think of a woman of my age 
definitely making an attempt to win the affec- 
tions of a married man. Now, with divorce 
so easy — " 

"If the love is great enough — " I began. 

"Oh it is!" she assured me. "It only hap- 
pened this afternoon — " She stopped and a 
deep blush suffused her countenance. I be- 
came distinctly uncomfortable. 

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American Womanhood 

"Now what would you advise?*' she pur- 
sued. 

Fortunately, we arrived at that moment be- 
fore the imposing dwelling in which I was 
being entertained. . . . 

In closing, I should like to say to my friends, 
the ladies of America, that I think they have 
a great future, and that they have as warm a 
place in my heart as they undoubtedly have 
in the hearts of their husbands. Until my 
next visit, when I shall have many interesting 
things to tell you — from the lecture platform, 
of course. 



[259] 



Chapter Eight 
I REVIEW MY AMERICAN TRIP 



CHAPTER EIGHT 
I REVIEW MY AMERICAN TRIP 

Here am I back again in Sussex, looking 
out on the gentle rolling landscape, hearing 
the nightingale sing once more, peaceful, oh! 
so peaceful, after the roar and stress of de- 
lightful, but essentially dirty, America. 
Theresa is sitting on the lawn, reading a book 
on titled heads and their recreations. It was 
good to see a real aristocrat once morel 

Looking back on this whole strenuous ex- 
perience, the one thing that most annoyed me, 
among many annoyances, though I would not 
have you think for the world that I was in any 
sense criticizing America in the remarks I 
have to make — well. The one thing that an- 
noyed me most was that they call lifts, eleva- 
tors! Imagine! How perfectly absurd! 
And the trajfEc rules on the streets for vehicles 

[263] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

are exactly wrong, that is, just the opposite 
from the right way, the way they are here. 
Well! Well! I suppose that those are little 
things, after all; but, somehow, it's the little 
things that count. 

Certain fundamental wrongs in America 
worry me. There is the dirt, for example, 
everything seems grimy. There is the roar 
and the push of the subways, and the grab- 
bing, jamming people. Now I suppose that 
there are those who would say that London is 
dirty; but they are persons who do not under- 
stand the difference between the accumulated 
mellowness of centuries and fresh dirt. 

How terribly commercial Americans are! 
They seem to think and talk nothing but 
money. Therein men are a race of business 
men, nothing more — no charm, no subtlety. 
In fact, America might be visualized as at- 
tempting to draw unto itself the commerce 
of the world. I suppose that there are those 
who would say that Britain, with her Mer- 
chant Marine, and her Indian policy, has a 
commercial instinct; but those persons do not 

[264] 



/ Review My American Trip 

realize that this is tradition, this is the spirit of 
ages past, when Drake sailed the Seven Seas, 
when Nelson upheld the Glory of Great Brit- 
tain. This is not commerce ; this is the poetic 
soul of Empire. What a difference! 

Then, of course, America is too large. That 
isn't its fault, I know; but, nevertheless, it's 
too large, just the same. Then, there is the 
appearance of the women. Mr. Flo Ziegfeld, 
who produces ^^The Follies," famous for their 
beauties, thinks that he has in his chorus the 
most beautiful ladies in the world; but he's 
mistaken. I did not see (if I thought that this 
would be read in America I would not say 
this) a single woman in the United States 
whose appearance was not anaemic; not one 
that could compare with a good husky Sus- 
sex lass leading the cows home across the 
fields; nor even one that compared with my 
own Theresa, God bless her soul as she sits 
there reading her little book. 

It is pleasant to be admired by people. It 
is flattering to be so universally loved and 
feted as I was in America; but occasionally, 

[265] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Oh! very occasionally, the suspicion crosses 
one's mind that Americans are such fools that 
they admire everyone. In fact, I rather hope 
that I shall never have to return to that coun- 
try of no whiskey and much talk. But of 
course, I know that I shall; for they will de- 
mand it, and so will my income. One cannot 
turn down offers such as one receives from 
American lecture bureaus, nor can one forego 
the hospitality of American homes, where 
millionaires' wives are tumbling over them- 
selves to entertain any visiting Englishman in 
the most lavish fashion. 

I was rather surprised, this morning, to re- 
ceive, in the mails, a letter from a young man 
whom I met while in America, who seemed 
to have rather more sense than most American 
young men, who, in the main, except for the 
undergraduates at Yale, had very little to do 
with me. This letter, I feel, in justice to 
America, I must print. I had written to him, 
you see, telling him how happy I was to be 
back upon my native heaths, and he replied 
in somewhat bitter fashion. 

[266] 



/ Review My American Trip 

"You write," he commences, "that you are 
^infinitely relieved to be away from the glare 
and the blare of America, from the sordid effi- 
ciency of its marts of trade,' from the ^flatter- 
ing unction of its society ladies,' from its ^vul- 
gar display of wealth,' from its ^ghastly cul- 
tural ignorance,' from its ^pernicious literary 
back-scratching and ugly gossip,' that you are 
overjoyed to find yourself again in quiet Sus- 
sex where you can listen to your beloved 
nightingale. 

"Very well, Mr. Tubby, I'm glad that you 
are there, too, only I do not want you to think 
that you have seen America, or even tried to 
understand her people. You speak of its glare 
and blare, yet H. L. Mencken, writing from 
England, tells me that you are already copy- 
ing our electric signs, and that London is be- 
coming increasingly bright. New York, Chi- 
cago, and other cities, maybe, are glaring and 
blaring; but did you ever shoulder a pack 
and climb one of the Adirondack Mountains 
at dawn, or sneak up along the Hudson in a 
canoe at evening? You speak of the ^sordid 

[267] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

efficiency of the marts of trade.' What other 
marts did you seek out? Did you test the 
hearts of the simple farmers of New England, 
or talk with a rancher in Texas? Are you 
speaking, Mr. Tubby, of New York, or of 
America! You speak, too, of the ^flattering 
unction of our society ladies.' What ladies do 
you mean? Did you or your agent not seek, 
with letters of introduction, and by any other 
means which came to hand, entrance to the 
homes of the very wealthiest, without regard 
for their fundamental worth? Do you think 
for one instant that by these methods you were 
taken into the homes of any of what might be 
called the real aristocracy of America? Did 
you not yield in every case to the most flatter- 
ing invitations, and visit those homes where 
you became simply a puppet in a vulgar dis- 
play? Do you mean to say that England has 
no noveau riche, and that her wealthy men 
and women are always paragons of taste? 

"Again you use the phrase ^ghastly cultural 
ignorance.' Did you meet our Doctors o£ 
Philosophy, our scholars and our scientists, or 

[268] 



/ Review My American Trip 

did you spend your time with estimable fel- 
lows whose one business in life is to create 
literary news, to pound your drum and their 
own on a literary band wagon? And, ahl Mr. 
Tubby, are there no literary cliques in Lon- 
don? Do you not have your private scandals? 
Are the morals and the methods of your nov- 
elists and poets never the subject for salacious 
gossip amid after-dinner cigar-smoke? Is 
your literary lingerie never cleansed in pub- 
lic? And again, you say, that you are over- 
joyed to find yourself in quiet Sussex where 
you can listen to your beloved nightingale. 

"Well, after all, Mr. Tubby, such differ- 
ences of opinion as you and I must face are 
not uncommon. I was not impressed by your 
English nightingale when I first heard him 
sing; and the reason, doubtless, was because he 
has been so adequately celebrated by your 
poets, so immortally idealized that I had been 
led to expect a miracle. We have our hermit 
thrush in America and I prefer his song to 
that of your nightingale. But the cool notes 
of the hermit have never been hymned. You 

[269] 



Timothy Tubby s Journal 

have never read of him, I presume, and doubt- 
less no one took you out on a quiet hillside at 
evening in Vermont and let you hear that eerie 
chorus of thrush and whippoorwill filling the 
night with beauty, longing and impassioned 
sadness. No! Mr. Tubby, you do not under- 
stand America, and you never will until you 
come to us with an open mind and a humble 
heart. It is too great a country for a small 
mind to absorb. When you forget your purse 
and your interpretations, when you English 
come to us as human beings rather than 
curiosities, and when you look on us as human 
beings instead of curiosities, then it may be we 
shall cease to seem a side-show to you and you 
will cease to seem to us something akin to a 
new and rather ill-mannered variety of freak. 
Until your celebrated men and women come to 
us incognito they cannot expect to see the real 
America. But all English visitors have not 
been so strange as you, Mr. Tubby, nor have 
all been so simple and kindly. We have much 
to learn from each other; but the time has 
passed, Mr. Tubby, when Americans wish to 

[270] 



/ Review My American Trip 

be patronized by you and your confreres. If 
you cannot find it in you to attempt to under- 
stand and appreciate us, doubtless it is only 
human nature that we should cease to under- 
stand and appreciate you and that we should 
commence to find it in our hearts to patronize 
you with our minds instead of our pocket 
books." 

A bitter letter, as I said ; but some truth in 
it, doubtless. There is one thing, however, 
that I should like to make plain in closing. 
Every Englishman planning to visit America 
should note it. Nor do I wish the English 
to feel that America does not want them. 
What of my visit? Does that not prove the 
point? The Americans have an appetite for 
just the type of thing that we can give them. 
Witness the following quotation from Mr. 
Sandburg's poem, "And so today" — 

"Feed it to *em, 

They lap it up, 

bull . . . bull . . . bull." 
Said a movie news reel camera man, 
Said a Washington newspaper correspondent. 
Said a baggage handler lugging a trunk, 

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Timothy Tubby s Journal 

Said a two-a-day vaudeville juggler, 

Said a hunky-punky selling jumping-jacks. 

"Hokum — they lap it up", said the buncli. 

Yet, you must go to this great, simple, al- 
most primitive people as I went, simply, even 
as a little child. They will take you unto 
themselves, laugh with you, weep with you, 
and if, as one child to another, a word of cor- 
rection or advice is spoken, remember that you 
are the older child and what tact an elder 
brother must display to his younger brother 
or sister. It is a difficult situation; but it can 
be surmounted. I met it — so can you. Amer- 
ica is a great and promising country. It has 
learned much from England already, it will 
learn more. Meanwhile, we must do our 
duty, we must help them when we can, always 
remembering that the naughty child resents 
the spanking. Though mama's hair brush be 
wielded by a loving hand, it yet strikes a ten- 
der spot. I shall go back to America, for I 
love it, in spite of all its faults; and Theresa, 
looking up from her book, nods her aristo- 
cratic head in agreement. America, we love 
you! Salute! 

[272] 



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